


Tense: Past, Future, Present Perfect

by Kari_Kurofai



Series: Maps Untraveled, Atlas Bound [2]
Category: My Engineer (TV)
Genre: Allusions to Cesarean Section, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Barebacking, Breeding, Breeding Kink, Childbirth, Discussions of Teen Pregnancy, Domestic Boyfriends, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Heat, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Consent, Kid Fic, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Minor Injuries, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Parental Instinct, Pregnancy, Pregnant Sex, Unplanned Pregnancy, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, implied PTSD, past trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:02:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 69,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24808966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kari_Kurofai/pseuds/Kari_Kurofai
Summary: When silence finally fills the air, punctuated only by their soft and simultaneous inhales and exhales, he voices the question Bohn has been dreading. “What do you want to do?”They’ve talked about it before, the fact that Bohn hadn’t been given a choice the last time. Even if he had he would have gone through with it, but the lack of options had always made him sick, left him cold. It’s the same now, and he knows that Duen already knows that, too. Guilt, though, tastes like bile on his tongue anyways. Duen’s still in school, has three years of interning at the clinic left ahead of him. They’d had a plan, and this wasn’t it.
Relationships: Duen Krisada Rattananumchok/Bon Sirikarnkul, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: Maps Untraveled, Atlas Bound [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1794442
Comments: 73
Kudos: 182





	1. Starting Over

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't read the first fic in this series please go do so as it sets up the worldbuilding and plot for this fic. Now the real question is was the first installment just the sexy sexy setup to the actual thing I wanted to write? Yes. Yes it was lmao.
> 
> There will be a second chapter/part 2 to this, but it's not done yet and I've teased everyone on Twitter with previews for long enough. Part 2 is on its way though.

It doesn't sink in at first what he's doing. Bohn spends almost a week rifling through Duen's clothes while he's studying for finals, taking shirts and wasting way too much time making sure he likes the smell and feel of them before he wears them. The fact that he's still not used to it is probably what makes it worse after he finally does realize. That, and that it's nearly a month too early. 

It's probably stress, Bohn thinks when he finds himself having to get up from studying for the fifth time in two hours just to rearrange the throw pillows on the couch. He's immediately annoyed as soon as he comes to the conclusion. Great. Fantastic. One more stupid thing to add to the ever growing list of factors that fuck with his hormones. Shove that right in there with "New Alpha In The Territory" and "That One Time His Heat Was Too Close to Ben's Birthday."

At least this time he's not totally on edge by himself. Bohn recognizes that's a rather selfish thing to take comfort in, but he doesn't care. 

When Duen comes home Bohn watches him from where he's lazing about on the sofa, his textbook forgotten in his hands. Duen leaves the groceries on the counter, an absurd amount, Bohn notes, before stalking back to the door to lock it, check it, unlock it, and then lock it again. It's soothing in it's own way, and he tracks his boyfriend with his eyes as he moves to do the same to the big glass doors of the balcony to his left. Lock, unlock, lock again, the tiniest of frowns on his face. 

"Babe," Bohn says, and Duen glances up, draws in a startled breath. "You're prowling."

Duen stares at him for a long moment, almost uncomprehending, before he mutters, "What the fuck? Isn't it like . . ." He pauses to count off on his fingers, "Three weeks? It's three weeks too early!"

Bohn rolls his eyes and gestures to the sofa around him, at the fact that he's moved every pillow in the damn apartment there to surround himself with like some kind of decadent god. "Yeah. I'm aware. Sorry. It's definitely me. Stress induced heats are a thing, right?"

Duen makes a low, sympathetic sound in the back of his throat and kneels down next to the couch by Bohn's head. "They are. Is it just the tests and the upcoming graduation that are getting to you, or . . ." He draws off, turns his head just slightly to part his lips, testing the air to see who else is home before he voices his thoughts aloud.

"He's in his room doing homework," Bohn whispers. "And it's a lot of things. But that's . . . That's definitely one of them."

Duen nods. "Are you going to be okay to take your last test tomorrow or do we need to ask for a makeup exam?"

God fucking forbid. "I haven't gone full bananas with the nesting yet, I'll be fine," Bohn assures. Stress induced heat or not, that's the one constant he can be sure of. If he's riled up enough to nest it'll be a slow burn. God, it still stings a little to acknowledge that though, to have to think about it and confront the fact that he's only managed to go through the whole nine yards of this four times. Twice in a row when he and Duen first started dating, the one time with the birthday incident, and the first time their cycles had lined up. The other three heats had been subdued, nest free and short lived. Bohn had been so frustrated with himself he'd spent half of those ones in tears. 

"I'm going to stop taking the hormone blockers," he hears himself say quietly, and Duen's hand is on his cheek before he even gets all the words out.

"Now?"

Bohn considers it. "There's enough in my system to get me through the test tomorrow. And what the fuck is my father gonna do if I show up to graduation unabashedly omega? Wrinkle his damn nose at me? The deal was that I would take them until I got my degree. So yeah, now seems good."

He leans into Duen's touch as he speaks, nosing into his palm until Duen obligingly runs his fingers down lower over the scent glands of his neck. "It might be a bit rough on you to do that cold turkey," Duen warns.

Bohn hums in agreement, and reaches up to drag him down with a hand on the back of his neck so he can press their cheeks together. "It's rough on me now," he reminds.

He doesn't like to think about those muted heats, about Duen trying desperately to assure him that they didn't make him lesser. It had never quite worked. Maybe if it was just fueled by basic instinct he could have been consoled, but genuine grief is another matter entirely. To want more and have your own body reject it, just the memory sends a nervous shiver through Bohn's frame. It's not going to be like that this time, he reminds himself as Duen reacts to his unease, climbs up over him on the couch cushions to settle his weight firmly against him and tangle their limbs together. He's already started nesting, it's not going to be like that this time.

"You know," Duen says conversationally where he's pillowed his head against Bohn's sternum, "for someone who throws such a tantrum whenever he nests you sure do like doing it."

Bohn snorts and tangles his fingers in his hair, scratching his nails over Duen's scalp in steady waves until he sighs and goes almost boneless against him. "I don't like _doing_ it," he corrects, because he doesn't. The entire process is tedious and aggravating. It's everything else that he likes; the security of having it during the heat, the knowledge of what it symbolizes, the potential future it speaks of. But he doesn't quite have the words, or the courage for that matter, to express all of that. "I like . . . Having it," he finishes lamely. It's not the creation, but the comfort. And he's hyper aware that Duen enjoys it for the exact same reason.

They've talked about it before, during one of those mostly failed heats. There had been no nest when Ben was conceived, and there had been none when he was born, either. 

Bohn had built his first nest for Duen. His _first_. Every time he's compelled to make one it feels like a commitment, and every time Duen takes him in it it's a promise. He needs that. He needs it so desperately and consistently that it _hurts_. 

Once, the second time he'd been struck by a medically subdued heat, he'd tried to just make one anyways. 

He'd locked Duen out of the bedroom when it sank in that it didn't work that way, that it wasn't the same, and had spent half of his too short and too cold heat so viscerally bereaved he couldn't let himself be touched. 

"I'll make a good one this time," he mutters over the top of Duen's head, his brain already cataloguing the best materials to use, the perfect way to arrange them. "I want it to be perfect."

It's an absolutely nonsensical thing to say, and Bohn knows that. On top of that, to say it to Duen, who can't understand the depth of how painstakingly he forges each nest simply because he's not wired that way, is especially silly. Still though, he's pleased when Duen murmurs out soft, encouraging praises over the hollow of his throat. He can't comprehend the base of it, but he knows Bohn by now, can read him well enough to get that it's important to him. And that's what matters.

~~~***~~~

Bohn wakes up three times during the night to find Duen pacing the apartment, and only manages to drag him back to bed once. It's not really how he wants to spend the evening before his last exam, but he doesn't complain. Instead, he merely watches Duen check the locks for security, the windows for drafts, and hums with quiet and contented acknowledgement when Duen finally climbs back over him to scent him so thoroughly one would think he'd never done it at all before. 

It's just the tiniest bit more territorial than usual, and when it sinks in why, Bohn is so pleased he almost feels bad. "It's stronger, right?" he asks when Duen spends multiple minutes in the morning biting at his neck and running his cheek over his shoulder. "The omega smell."

Duen mutters something that borders on a growl, then clears his throat. "Sorry. Yeah, it's . . . You don't smell like heat yet, but you're losing that neutral air. And your last class . . ." He makes the noise again, this time an unmistakable sound of distaste that rumbles in his chest, before he buries his face into the side of Bohn's neck with a sigh. "Sorry. I just don't want . . . _Mild_ is in your last class." It comes out the tiniest bit strangled, a mixture of anger and something else that makes Bohn's stomach flip with glee. 

"Trying to intimidate a beta?" Bohn grins, tangling his fingers in his boyfriend's hair when Duen digs his teeth into his collarbone and draws a ragged breath from his lungs. "Really?"

"Trying to intimidate Mild _specifically_ ," Duen corrects lowly. "It has nothing to do with anyone's status. Do you remember what he said to you on that volunteer trip?"

"That you would never be satisfied with a beta," Bohn whispers. 

Duen huffs, presses a kiss to the hollow of Bohn's throat and rubs his cheek over it. "It still pisses me off," he confesses, all but growling again. "Implying my affections are so flimsy. As if I ever cared about anything other than who you are. Fuck that guy," the vehemence vibrates through him so hard that Bohn feels it where they're pressed together. "I don't care about status, yours or mine or anyone's. But _he_ does, and if he can tell you're an omega I want to make sure he knows to _back off_."

Bohn lets himself be pushed down onto the mattress, loose limbed and quiet as he wraps his arms around Duen's shoulders. It's persistent, the way Duen is scenting him, thorough and almost harsh at times. But every bite left on his neck, his shoulders where Duen stretches the collar of his shirt, is soothed over with lingering kisses. "So you'd love me even if I was a beta?" Bohn asks after awhile, staring up at the ceiling as Duen noses at the juncture of his jaw. 

" _Yes_." The answer is so fierce it almost takes his breath away. And then Duen, without preamble, continues, "I'm gonna leave a mark here, okay?"

"Kay," Bohn whispers. He sucks in air through his teeth as Duen's mouth latches over the spot, just under his jaw where the skin is pliant. "And you'd love me if I was an alpha?" he asks. 

Duen pulls back, his breath hot over the bruise he's just bloomed. "Yes."

"Would you love me if I was-"

A hand covers his mouth before he can continue, and Duen glares down at him with a frown that's too wobbly on one side to be taken seriously. "If you say 'a worm' I'm going to be mad. We're having a moment."

Bohn, wisely, grows silent again. Jokes aside, he's disgustingly content with this. Cliche as it is he likes the way they are. He likes that despite how much Duen doesn't subscribe to the majority of alpha stereotypes, in this one way he's always been nothing but. _Possessive_. He doesn't growl much, and never in public when he does, and Bohn's pretty sure he's never heard him outright snarl. And he never gets between Bohn and anyone else, not even other alphas. But he's always shown his claim regardless, never lets Bohn leave the apartment without at least rubbing their cheeks together or nuzzling into his neck. So if this is the first price Bohn has to pay for going off his medication, then he's _delighted_. 

He wonders, with subdued, fuzzy thoughts, his nose full of Duen's scent, what they'll smell like when his omega hormones aren't repressed at all. Just the thought of it leaves him a little dizzy, a little breathless. Duen probably already knows, his senses are a bit biologically stronger, but Bohn has never managed to distinguish the mixed scent of them the way he has. Not when his own alone was so neutral. 

He's mesmerized enough by it now, satiated as Duen roves careful but deliberately pressured touches over his still clothed body. It's not even sexual, just a continued exploration of familiar territory, a gentle re-marking of what's already been made home. Even when Duen runs his cheeks over the insides of his thighs it's done in such a deeply, wholly intimate way that Bohn's breath doesn't hitch, stays rhythmic and slow and calm to match the contented beat of his heart. His senses are almost dulled to everything else, overwhelmed with nothing but Duen. Touch, scent, sight, sound, and when Duen leans down over him to kiss him, Bohn yields that last bit of his awareness too just to taste him. 

It takes him a little while to come back to himself. Duen pulls him up against him once he's satisfied with his work, runs his hands up and down his back as Bohn slumps at his shoulder and sighs, soft, gratified, claimed. He knows it's instinctual to feel like that, to melt into the ease of submissiveness while being scented by a long term partner for an extended period of time. But as with many things, this is reserved for just one person, instincts be damned. He would never, and for that matter has never, let anyone else even come close to doing this with him. Whatever primal impulses he has have only ever surfaced for Duen. And he means to keep it that way. 

Still a bit dazed, Bohn rubs the side of his cheek over Duen's shoulder where he's resting. "Love you," he murmurs through the last lazy dregs of the morning. 

As always, the reply is immediate. "I love you too."

~~~***~~~

“You smell different.”

He looks up from where he’s carefully folding clothes into Ben’s suitcase, his breath catching a little in his lungs. Ben is standing in the doorway, clutching his backpack to his chest and looking slightly unsettled. Bohn hasn’t hit his heat yet, so it’s not that. Whatever Ben is picking up on is the same thing that Duen had noticed this morning. “Good different or bad different?” he asks quietly.

Ben considers this in silence, his eyebrows furrowing. “Different,” he settles on, which is pretty much the exact answer Bohn expected him to give. 

Fondness, as always, blooms in Bohn’s chest slowly, and then all at once. Content for a heartbeat and unbridled the next, tinged with the lingering grief he knows he’ll never quite shake. “Come here,” he urges, pleased when Ben shuffles further into the room and sets his backpack down on the end of his bed. “It’s not a bad smell, right?”

Ben shakes his head, his hands tucked carefully behind his back and his chin tilted down. Where he’s kneeled next to the suitcase Bohn is at eye level with him, and he waits as Ben chews on his lip. “No,” he decides after a minute. “But I don’t like it.”

Oh. “Why?” Bohn can’t help but ask.

Ben looks away and sniffs. “It’s different,” he mutters again.

It takes Bohn a second to parse out what the problem is, and when he does he can’t help the grin that breaks out over his face. _Oh_. Of _course_. “Do you mean it’s different from you?” The side-eye Ben gives him speaks volumes, and Bohn holds out his arms and tries not to laugh. “Come here.”

After a year of living with them full time, of a bigger apartment that’s become theirs, Ben smells more like Duen to Bohn’s nose than anything else. He picks up on that as soon as Ben obligingly climbs into his lap and wraps his arms around his neck. Beneath it he can find the fainter traces of himself, the ones that have made up Ben’s own scent since he was born, but everything fades with time, and it’s more muted than he’d like. He wonders, giddy with just the thought, if being off hormone blockers might renew some of that, might stir up that latent biological reaction that tends to bind family members together. 

In less than a month he’ll be able to tell Ben everything, but for now he has this, has time to press his cheek to the top of his head, run his wrists over his back, murmuring soft and soothing sounds until Ben giggles and squirms in his arms. Even if the end result is Ben rejecting him he’ll have these little moments to hang on to, these in between stolen seconds where his child wants them to smell the same, where he’s still just small enough to be held. If all he gets is this, Bohn would still be happy with the memories of when Ben was, even just by instinct, his baby. He blows a raspberry into the crown of his head and Ben shrieks, scrambling out of his arms to bound over the bed.

Bohn’s after him in an instant, takes a pillow to the face, and gets ahold of the end of the star printed comforter to bundle the boy up into it. “No!” Ben laughs as he’s rolled over the mattress towards the head of the bed, his arms pinned to his sides under the blanket. “You can’t burrito me, that’s cheating!”

“Is it?” Bohn sing-songs. “I don’t see any written rules anywhere.” He blows another raspberry to Ben’s cheek, earning a snickering protest as Ben manages to get his hands free and shove at his face. 

“Gross! You’re so embarrassing!”

“That’s my job,” Bohn grins down at him. He gets a third raspberry onto the other cheek, unperturbed when Ben wiggles away and rolls off the bed. The gagging noise he makes as he swipes a hand over the wet spot on his cheek is overdramatic, but it reminds Bohn of himself, so he takes it in stride.

“Gross,” Ben reiterates, but the twitch of a smile in the corners of his mouth betrays him. 

When Duen gets back he gives Ben much the same treatment, sweeping him off his feet with an exclamation of surprise and rubbing his cheek over his head until Ben starts to squirm and holler about being too smelly now. “Nonsense,” Duen insists. “You’re supposed to smell like your family.”

He double checks everything Bohn has packed, not because he doesn’t trust him but because he _has to._ Bohn waits until he’s done, until Ben is impatiently sitting on his suitcase by the door and fiddling with his tablet, before he pulls him into their bedroom to take care of the last important bit. They strip out of their shirts in silence, put on new ones and fold the others up to be stored in a ziplock bag. 

When they drop Ben off at Frong and Thara’s, Frong makes fun of them for it as always. “I bet your parents never did this shit,” he mutters, holding the bag at arms length. 

Bohn just shrugs, “Yeah. And look how I turned out.” He smirks when Frong scowls. It’s fine though, because he knows the mocking stops at the door, that it doesn’t carry over to Ben. Despite the face he makes every time Duen and Bohn hand over the bag of shirts, Bohn knows he gets it. Especially since it had been his idea in the first place when they’d started bringing Ben here during their cycles. 

“ _He’ll sleep sounder if the room he’s staying in still smells like home._ ”

Frong had claimed it was just because he didn’t want to deal with a crying kid basically ever, but Bohn knows better. Or at least he knows Thara wouldn’t have such a soft spot for him if he was as much of a total prick in private as he was to Bohn specifically. And he knows Frong is well aware of this, too. Bohn wouldn’t trust him to take care of his kid otherwise. 

They exchange the required pleasantries, extract the necessary promises from Ben to be good, the ones from Frong to call them if there’s an emergency, all of it old song and dance by now. And that's that. 

Bohn starts upending the living room pretty much the second they get back to the apartment. Duen finished prepping meals the night before, and he retreats to the bathroom to shower, used to this by now to know to stay out of the way for awhile.

The couch is shoved into the corner after it’s divested of its cushions, and Bohn drags both the coffee table and Ben’s big bean bag chair to elsewhere in the apartment. He ignores Duen’s muttered protest when he steals his towel before he can use it, and comes back a minute later to leave a fresh one on the rack instead. The mattress, as always, is a hurdle, especially after moving in together and upgrading to a king. Bohn manages to get it through the door with only a minor struggle, stubborn to the last. Duen had asked him once, mildly exasperated, why he couldn’t just leave it in the bedroom, make the nest there. And as always, Bohn hadn’t had a good answer other than that it felt wrong.

The living room is appropriately named. It’s lived in, homey, steeped in the feelings and smells of the entire household. It’s where they spend most of their time. Not that their bedroom isn’t great, perfect for sleeping and regular sex, but the thought of nesting in there leaves him incredibly uneasy. There’s a very specific purpose to heats and ruts, to the nesting and the prowling, that exists outside those confines. The privacy and intimacy of their bedroom doesn’t compare to the comforts of the home outside of it. So, okay, maybe he does know why, but the thought alone is so embarrassing it makes even him blush.

Ben had been conceived in a motel, in sheets that didn’t smell like anyone, a room that had been lived in by countless strangers, and it had felt _wrong_. 

Even if their cycles aren’t about that yet, the instinct of it still compels him to think of it that way, always. It’s the same reason Duen will spend hours prowling around the apartment later tonight, checking the locks, looking for drafts, shuttering the windows, and counting the Tupperware containers in the fridge. Everything has to be secure, the territory has to be made home, all of it just a series of deep seated steps towards that primal impulse carved into their very bones. 

As always, Bohn has the most trouble with the blankets, folding, tangling, and unfolding them over and over as he tries to arrange them just right. It peaks his frustration early every time he stands up to study the arrangement and finds it somehow lacking. Eventually he gets it right though, finds the perfect, if absolutely nonsensical space for everything. He rolls onto his back in the midst of the mess he will never admit out loud is a mess, staring up at the ceiling as he listens to the faint sounds of Duen pacing around, the click of locks and the slide of windows. His skin isn’t brimming with heat yet, and the air only holds the faintest taste of honey. Satisfied, Bohn rolls over onto his stomach and settles in to sleep while he still can.

~~~***~~~

Bohn wakes up to hands slipping up under his shirt and below the waistline of his pants, a sturdy weight against his back. He jolts, startled for a heartbeat until teeth drag over the nape of his neck, teasing at the fire burning under his skin, and he relaxes. 

"Falling asleep with your clothes on," Duen chides lowly, and he's equally hot as he sears a kiss along Bohn's shoulder when he pulls his shirt off, "You're going to overheat."

He's hard already, Bohn can feel it pressed against his ass, and he pants as he inhales the mixed scent of their shared cycle in the air, a thick veil of honey and musk that sends shivers down his spine. As ever though, even within the throes of his own rut, Duen is so, so careful with him. His touch is gentle when he drags Bohn's pants down from his hips, slow as he trails soothing kisses over his back. He takes his time despite the way Bohn can feel him trembling, though every once in awhile he can't help but grind against him, choking on a desperate growl even as he apologizes.

"It's okay," Bohn assures, and he wiggles up into Duen's body, gets his knees under him. Duen’s fingers skim across his chest to his stomach, one hand settling there as the other glides up to grip his hip. His breath is like steam over the nape of Bohn’s neck, harsh and heated every time he exhales, each time he mouths at Bohn’s skin and digs his teeth in. He’s shaking, and Bohn murmurs his sympathies as he gathers a pillow to him and presses his face into it. “It’s okay,” he repeats. “Come on, baby. It’s okay. I’m ready for you.”

Duen whines into his shoulder, the sound tapering off into another barely repressed growl. “Don’t want to hurt you,” he hisses between his teeth. “Give me a minute. I just-” He drops his head down, rests it between Bohn’s shoulder blades as he sucks in a steadying breath. 

Bohn nods and stills despite how much he’s already aching for it, how his own breaths are hitching with need. It’s always like this to start with. As much as Duen hates it, there are some things he can’t quite suppress, and the initial roughness of a rut is one of them. Regardless of how many times Bohn has told him that he’s fine afterwards, that he likes it, Duen still views the bite marks that break the skin, the bruises on his hips, with such horrified eyes that it breaks his damn heart. But it’s been awhile since they’ve had a good cycle, and Bohn can only take so much waiting before it starts to get overwhelming. Duen is a solid presence against his back, and the pressure of his hands on Bohn’s abdomen, his hip, are practically branding him. He can _feel_ how much he needs this, too, gets a tantalizing taste of it every time Duen can’t stop himself from pressing forward, panting across his spine every time he does.

“Duen, baby _please_ ,” Bohn gasps. He’s so close, the tip of him dragging just short of where Bohn wants him. “Come on. I can take it. Please, please, please-”

Duen’s teeth sink into the base of his neck, and he jerks Bohn’s hips up as he finally slides home. Bohn drops his face into the pillow again, choking on a groan of relief. As soon as he’s fully seated inside, Duen stills, his nails digging into Bohn’s skin. “Fuck,” he grits out hoarsely. “ _Fuck_ , Bohn.”

“That’s the idea, yeah,” Bohn can’t help but laugh, relieved when Duen huffs on a faint bite of mirth of his own against his neck. He shifts, whining when it makes Duen sink in just a fraction deeper, but he still hasn’t moved. “Come on,” Bohn urges. “Duen, come on. I can take it, you know I can.” Duen shakes his head over his spine, and Bohn whimpers. “ _Baby_ ,” he pleads, “baby, it’s okay. I’m _made for this_. I’ve got you. Come on, baby.” And then, because he’s not above playing dirty, he adds, low and desperate, “Come on, breed me.”

Bohn gasps as Duen bites at his shoulder, the growl that rumbles through him so loud Bohn can feel it in his own chest from where they’re pressed together. And then the hand on his stomach moves to grip his hip too, and he scrabbles at the sheets as Duen starts fucking into him so hard he can barely breathe. He comes almost immediately, keening on an absolutely filthy sound as liquid fire licks up through his every nerve and has him bearing down in ripples and wakes. Bohn slumps over the pillow, tingling with aftershocks and sucking in strangled breaths, and it’s only by how tightly he curls his fingers into the sheets that keeps him from being pushed up the mattress with every thrust. 

He can feel Duen beginning to falter after a few minutes, and he quivers with anticipation as the swell of his knot starts to catch, has to be ground back in. “There you go, baby,” Bohn praises, already on edge again just from the anticipation of it. “ _There you go_.” He loves this part, loves when Duen can’t help but just grind against him, his grip on his hips turning bruising as he jerks and presses and pants until it sticks, until they’re tied together and Bohn can feel him pulsing and twitching inside him. His hands clench into the sheets, bunching them between his fingers as he shudders apart once more. One of his knees slips, and Duen’s teeth dig into his shoulder again as he gets a hand under him to let them down slowly. 

Bohn sighs as he’s settled back onto his stomach, temporarily satiated as the sweat starts to cool on his skin. “Baby,” he murmurs, twisting his head just enough to the side so he can try and meet Duen’s eyes. But Duen looks away, leans his forehead into his shoulder with a muted little sound. “ _Baby_ ,” Bohn repeats, fiercer, commanding, “look at me. Hey. _Look at me_. Do I seem hurt?”

Duen sucks in an unsteady inhale, but he lifts his head to meet his eyes. He doesn’t answer, and after a moment turns away again to nuzzle into the spot on Bohn’s shoulder he’d bitten. It didn’t break the skin, but it still feels tender, definitely bruised, and Bohn reaches up to tangle his fingers into his boyfriend’s hair. “It’s okay,” he whispers. “I’m okay. You’re doing _so good_ , Duen. You’re so good to me. I’m okay.”

He’ll say it many times during the first few hours of this, lace the air with whatever reassurances Duen needs to hear. After the minutes stretch out, after Duen is able to ease out of him, Bohn lets him roll him over, bury his face in his chest and tangle their bodies together. He says it all again, repeats every murmur and praise over the shell of Duen’s ear and cards his fingers through his hair. “Look at you,” he hums when Duen shifts, trails his hands down to the underside of Bohn’s thighs and parts them, already hard again, already panting out heated breaths over his collarbones. “Look at you, baby. Look how much you need it, how much you want me.” He purrs when Duen pushes into him, his back arching. “I love this,” he gasps. “You’re so- _god, Duen_ , do you know what this is like for me? How good this is?”

“Tell me,” Duen begs, but they both know it’ll have to wait.

Bohn wraps his legs around Duen’s waist this time, reclines back into the cushioning he’s created for himself so he can watch him fall apart. Again, his pace is bordering on brutal, and his nails will surely leave little crescents in the curves of Bohn’s waist. But Bohn doesn’t care, because he wasn’t lying. He loves this, all of it, even when it’s rough and dirty and quick. Duen’s breathing is harsh, staggered and hoarse the next time he knots him, harsher still when Bohn moans and gasps around his own orgasm. His hands tangle in Duen’s hair when he comes, drag him down for a kiss, a bite, a series of affections that quickly twist into something just as wild as the rest of them. 

“Love you,” Bohn pants over his mouth, so very eager to fulfill his earlier promise to try and put everything these shared cycles make him feel into words. “Love _this_. I love it when you’re rough with me, when you can’t help but be, like you can’t even-” he breaks off with a surprised little sound as Duen gets his hands under his ass and leans back to hoist him up into his lap. Bohn gasps as they settle together again, keenly aware of how it drives the knot into him a little deeper. “ _Fuck_ ,” he breathes, winding his arms around Duen’s shoulders and pressing his face into his neck. “Fuck, Duen, I love how much you want me. You know that, right? You know that I need that.” His head tilts to the side obligingly when Duen noses up against his jaw, and he shivers as he mouths at the mark he’d left there before. “You’re never too rough, okay, baby? Never. You’re always so good to me, you’ve never done anything I can’t handle.”

When Duen pulls out next, rolls Bohn over and thrusts back in, the restraint finally snaps. Bohn can feel exactly where the imprints of his hands will be left on his hips, and he doesn’t miss the faint trickle of blood that drips down over the side of his neck when Duen bites him again. His legs give out this time, but Duen just drives him into the mattress harder, mutters a choked apology over the puncture in his skin and keeps going until he’s groaning and coming again, and Bohn is panting and shuddering around his own release. This time the knotting borders on too much, and Bohn buries his face in the pillows, unable to catch his breath for a few long minutes.

“ _F-fuck_ ,” he gasps once he has the air to, “Duen, I’m so fucking . . . _God_ , I’m so _full_.”

To his delight, the sound Duen makes over the back of his neck is low and dark, unquestionably pleased. “Good,” he murmurs. He grinds forwards, just a little to push Bohn up the mattress a bit, just enough to make him whine and shudder. “That’s _the point_.”

Oh? Bohn grins, cheshire smug, out of sight with the position they’re in. “Yeah?” he breathes, knowing full well that’s more than enough to keep Duen talking in the height of his rut.

Duen presses forwards again, leaves him gasping, aching. He moves a hand from his hip to his abdomen, scrapes his nails over the skin there and then flattens his palm against him. It’s deliberate, the meaning obvious even without words. Regardless, he follows it with some anyways, breathes them over Bohn’s spine between hot kisses. “Next time,” he says, his tone fierce and possessive despite the way it hardly raises above a whisper. He flattens his hand down over Bohn’s stomach again, fingers just barely brushing the edges of an old scar. “Next time, it’ll be _mine_.”

He traces lower in the wake of that proclamation, and Bohn whines, sucking in a breath as an expert touch eases between him and the sheets. Duen gets him off again easily, nuzzling and pressing soothing kisses to the harshest of the bite marks on Bohn’s neck, circling his fingers with just the right amount of pressure to have Bohn mewling into the pillows and gasping on oversitive moans. It’s too much, he’s too _full_ , too heated, and Bohn’s head spins on the heels of that orgasm, spots dancing in his vision. He reaches down and pulls Duen’s hand away before he can do it again, making sure to pepper his apologies with praises as he twines their fingers together. “Yours,” he promises. “As if I would-” Duen shifts, just enough for Bohn to feel it inside him, and he hisses. “ _Fuck_! _Hah_ \- as if I would _ever_ let anyone else do this to me. Of course it’ll be yours.”

He’s pliant when Duen rolls them over onto their sides, loose limbed and exhausted, his chest rising and falling in deep, even inhales and exhales. Duen hums out quiet affirmations into the curve of his neck, rubbing his cheek over whatever he can reach on his body while they’re still tied together. He traces lazy shapes over Bohn’s sides as they rest, draws them to his chest, the hollow of his throat, and then back again, a warm weight around him as Bohn drifts off into sleep.

~~~***~~~

They come together a dozen or more times before Duen winds down, though Bohn loses track of exactly how many after he first dozes off. He’s quiet by the time Duen picks him up to carry him to the bathroom, and he’s content to just rest against him where Duen sits them on the side of the tub while it’s filled. His skin is starting to become unbearably heated, his own peak probably not too far away, but he’s too worn out at the moment to care. That’s a problem for horny Bohn to deal with, the Bohn who’s gotten over his aches and can sit up straight again after a nice long bath. 

“M’not too heavy, am I?” he mumbles into Duen’s shoulder. He has a good couple of centimeters on his partner, a little more bulk, but Duen just presses a kiss to his cheek with a soft, “No.”

He can’t help but hiss when Duen lowers them down into the water, the cold only highlighting the heat of his body, stinging at the places where he’s still too sensitive. “Let go so I can turn you around,” Duen says at his ear, but Bohn shakes his head, clings tighter, trying to leech off of Duen’s own warmth and away from the chill. “Bohn. _Phi_ , please.”

Bohn lets go with great and very whiny reluctance and allows Duen to settle his back against his chest instead. “Sorry,” he gasps when he shies away from the first touch of a washrag to his skin. But Duen’s so good to him, so patient, and merely wraps an arm around his middle to hold him still as he carefully dabs the cloth over him.

It’s probably more work than it should be, Bohn thinks dizzily, especially because he keeps trying to squirm away, whimpering when the cold press to his heated body lingers for too long, or tentative fingers find a mark or bruise too tender still to be touched. Duen pauses at the one on the back of his neck, his breath ghosting over it, and Bohn stills immediately when he leans in to kiss it, his lips trembling.

“Hey,” Bohn says hoarsely. “Hey, no. Don’t- I asked you to do that, remember? I told you to be rough.”

“I know,” Duen whispers. “But I . . . Does it hurt?”

Bohn sighs, “Yeah, _but-_ ” he snaps, cutting off the injured sound that has been building in Duen’s throat, “I _like that_.” He reaches to tap the spot, to trace a finger over the imprints of Duen’s teeth at the base of the back of his neck. “It shows that you wanted me, that I’m yours. Okay? It’s fine.” And then, slyly, he adds, “Besides, it’s not like I don’t do horrible embarrassing things you secretly like when I peak.”

Duen scoffs. “Like what?”

“You like when I get bratty and don't want you to pull out,” Bohn teases, ignoring Duen’s noise of protest. “You love that I'm so desperate to be bred that I won't shut up about it, that I bully you into fucking me again and again until I can't even move."

He's not too surprised when Duen's hands slip down under his thighs, and he digs his heels into the floor of the tub obligingly to lift himself up. When Duen pushes into him he groans, his head falling onto his boyfriend's shoulder, his chest already heaving with shallow, panting breaths. "You're a tease," Duen mutters over his neck. 

"Yep" Bohn says, "but you _like it_." He keens as Duen thrusts into him, his hands scrabbling uselessly at the smooth sides of the tub. " _Fuck_! Slowly, baby, slowly. I'm still a little sore. Also, if you overflow the tub again you're cleaning it up," he reminds, and Duen chuckles against his shoulder, rubs his cheek over the soft space between that and the side of his neck.

As much as Bohn likes it rough, he likes this more. He enjoys the quieter couplings the most, the ones where even in the midst of the heat and the rut they're focused on each other in all the best ways. He doesn't care about the water that sloshes over the side of the tub in the end, too consumed by the gentle roll of their bodies together to even notice. It's that that gets him the most, the way they're pressed together, how Duen leaves kisses over the line of his throat every time he moves in him, how he can feel each hitch of his breath and drum of his heart through his back. He responds just right to every noise Bohn makes, adjusts his rhythm, his depth, praising when Bohn grinds back down against him in tandem. And when he finally has Bohn on the edge, flushed and heated and trembling around him, only then does he work that last swell of himself inside.

“ _Hah_ \- god, _ah_! Fuck,” Bohn gasps, his arms shaking where he’s trying to keep a grip on the sides of the tub. Duen gets his hands under his thighs again, pulls him back, and Bohn whimpers with how it makes him shift deep inside, press in further, a little harder, as he settles Bohn’s legs over his own. Duen’s arm latches around his middle, holds him close, and Bohn’s back arches again as he slips a hand under the water and brings him off in a quick, heated rush that makes stars dance in his eyes. He pants as he comes down from it, wordlessly satiated and practically purring as Duen noses into the side of his neck and soothes at every bite mark he’s left with quiet kisses.

~~~***~~~

The thing is, even at the peak of his heat Bohn knows _exactly_ what he's doing. It's all still him, all his own insatiable, normally unspoken wants and needs, just uninhibited. Where Duen spends time trying to hold that part of himself back, Bohn lets loose and _relishes_ in it. He knows he’s spoiled, but that’s kind of the best part. 

He loves how easily, how willingly Duen takes care of him. He’s so good to him, bows so well to Bohn’s every fire-fueled whim, his eyes dark and every kiss shared as hungry as Bohn’s own. When Bohn wants it hard he’s given it exactly as he asks, bent in half or pressed face down into the mattress, a hand on the middle of his back to hold him there as Duen fucks into him. And if he needs it softer, gasps to be held close and taken while they’re twined together, his face buried in Duen’s shoulder and his legs around his waist, he’s given that too. 

Bohn knows it’s a lot, knows that he’s a bit too much to handle, but even when he catches the faintest traces of annoyance in Duen’s gaze in the wake of a particularly bratty statement or reaction, it never lingers for more than a moment. It’s replaced with murmured affections, lingering kisses over hot skin, and when he’s really lucky, a quick flip over onto his stomach and a knot being shoved into the very core of him until he’s gasping and keening and begging for more.

It’s good. It’s so good. Perfect. But as always, eventually it gets overwhelming.

Bohn tries his damndest to save his inevitable breakdowns for when Duen’s trying to recharge, is heating up meals or showering or sleeping, but he never quite manages, especially not after their cycles lined up and Duen could keep up with him better. 

This time, he loses his grip in the dead of night when they’re supposed to be resting. Duen is sleeping soundly, but Bohn can’t seem to settle himself at all. He knows, far too well, that this is just part of it. His emotions run high during a heat, higher still at the peak of it, but grappling with the worst of his own shortcomings and fears still leaves him shaking and breathless while he’s already so vulnerable. He buries his face in the pillows as it sets in, that horrible ache of longing and grief he knows will befall him every time, forever, and he’s careful to pull himself out of Duen’s arms and far enough away so that he won’t wake him, at least not immediately. 

When Duen does wake up, Bohn knows it by the hitch of his breath even before he speaks. The mattress dips next to him, and Bohn curls into himself further, flinches away from the first touch. “Oh, Bohn,” Duen whispers.

In this especially Bohn’s sure he doesn’t deserve the sympathy, the patience. He bares his teeth when Duen rolls him over, struggles and snaps and fights until Duen manages to finally subdue him, bundle him up into his arms and murmur soft reassurances into his neck. It’s too much, it’s not enough, and Bohn sucks in one great, heaving and shaking sob after another while Duen nuzzles his cheek over as much of him as he can. His skin is still flushed too hot, but it’s overshadowed by the shaking and the sluggish, wounded thrum of his heart. 

“I want . . .” Bohn starts once he’s able to find the words, form them into something coherent Duen can make sense of. “I want to start over. _I want to start over_. It’s not- why couldn’t it have been _now_? I missed so much. I didn’t even-” He chokes, presses his face into Duen’s shoulder and staggers in a breath, another. One of Duen’s hands shifts to his hair, threads his fingers through it over the back of his neck and cards upwards. So slow, so careful. Too patient, too kind. “I wasn’t ready. I missed his first steps.” This time he can’t help the visceral, hollow noise that rips through him, tearing out of his body like it’s been imprisoned behind his ribs for years and years and years. It’s practically a howl, and Duen’s arms tighten around him so hard Bohn can’t help but sag against him, weak and struck down by his own desolation. “I missed- I missed his first words.”

There are things he can’t make up, spaces of time stolen from him that can’t be recovered, and Bohn knows with painful clarity that he will always grieve them. It hits him hardest when he can’t restrain it, can’t bury that latent heartache behind a smirk and a sarcastic remark. He wants to start over, to do everything right, but like most wishes it’s nothing that can be fulfilled. He wants the impossible chance to be twenty-three and confident, curled around his sleeping, infant son in the warmth of his own home. But he had been fourteen, scared and hurting, his hand clutching tiny fingers over the rim of a plexiglass bassinet in a hospital bed. 

It’s not fair. It will never be fair. And every time that sinks in Bohn’s heart breaks all over again. 

Duen lets him cry. He always does, consoling as best as he can for a grief that can’t be healed. He whispers the quietest reassurances over the shell of Bohn’s ear, soft affections that do more to ground him than Bohn thinks he’ll ever understand. Even when all he says is, “I know,” or, “I love you,” it’s enough. To know he’s wanted, that someone hears him, even when he feels like he’s trapped in the darkest depths of his own heart, is more than enough. 

It’s only after he finally runs out of tears, is exhausted and trembling with hiccupping breaths, that Duen says more. He lets Bohn down first, settles him onto the mattress and brackets him in with his body, waiting for Bohn to reach up and drag him down, press them together, before he nuzzles into his skin and winds his arms around him again. “You still have so much you can do,” he whispers into Bohn’s neck, punctuates it with a kiss. “So much you already have done.”

In the grand scheme of things, Bohn knows this. Still, miserably he mutters, “Like what?”

“You taught him how to ride a bike,” Duen reminds, and Bohn snorts. “You help him with his homework. You tuck him in at night.”

“Big accomplishments,” Bohn grumbles, “Fantastic.” He knows he’s being harsh, but it comes out anyways, bitter and heavy. 

Duen doesn’t falter though. “You take him to school and pick him back up at the end of the day. You play games with him. He _asked you_ to scent him. He likes smelling like you, like us. Bohn, all of that, those little things, those are going to mean so much more to him than the stuff he was too young to remember. I know it’s not the same, but it _matters_.”

He’s right, it’s not the same. But Bohn can’t begrudge him that, because he’s right about everything else, too. It does matter, at least to him, even if for right now he can’t bring himself to think about if it will matter enough to Ben, too. 

“And you’ll get to try again,” Duen reminds, so softly, hesitantly, that Bohn almost doesn’t hear it even though they’re tangled so closely together. He clings a little tighter, leaves a kiss of his own across Duen’s shoulder, and buries his face into the crook of his neck. “You can’t start over, but you can- _we_ can try again,” he corrects, and Bohn’s breath stutters out of him, wet with relief this time, with want. “We’ll get there,” Duen whispers. “Together. I promise.”

After awhile, long minutes of just laying there wrapped in each other, Duen wiggles a hand free from under him to lay it over Bohn’s forehead. “Phi,” he says, the single syllable laced with thick concern, “you’re burning up.” Bohn just presses closer, earning a sympathetic kiss to his cheek, another to the line of his jaw. “Do you want a bath?”

Duen’s right to assume anything else might be bordering on too much right now, but Bohn wants it anyways. He’s exhausted, but he’s also desperate. There’s a comfort in all this, an ache that can only be satiated in one way, both physically and emotionally. And Duen knows that, too. All Bohn has to do is ask, and he’ll provide. 

He shakes his head, tightens his grip around Duen’s shoulders, and shivers as his partner reads him just right and starts to slide his hands down his back. “Need you,” Bohn whispers, hoarse and broken still, strung out from too many shed tears. “I just need you.”

Sometimes, lots of times actually, he thinks Duen might be _too_ good for him. He knows they aren’t much of a match. From an outside perspective they’re practically two pieces of entirely different puzzles. He’s well aware that his hard edges don’t always mesh well with Duen’s softer ones. Sometimes he’s too pushy, too needy, more than a handful. His sarcasm conflicts with Duen’s earnestness, his clinginess a sharp contrast to his boyfriend’s uncertainty. But he’s also conscious of the fact that they always, _always_ somehow make it work.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” Duen murmurs against his cheek, his breath hot as he trails his fingers through Bohn’s hair. As if he would ever be too much, as if Bohn doesn’t already feel like he does nothing but take and take and take from Duen and never has enough to give back. 

It’s pathetic, maybe, to find as much comfort as he does in something so carnal, but he can’t help it. Most of the time the pleasure is just an afterthought, overshadowed until it climaxes by every other intimate detail. “Slowly,” he gasps when Duen pulls his thighs up around his waist, teases the head of his cock against his center. “Be careful with me, baby.”

He whimpers when Duen eases in, his fingers clenching over his shoulder blades hard enough that he knows he’ll leave new scores on his skin along with all the others he’s already carved this cycle. It’s not that it hurts, but rather that it’s just _a lot_ ; another, different overflow of emotion tied to the act that makes Bohn squeeze his eyes shut, choke on a breath, and hide his face away in the soft space between Duen’s neck and shoulder as a last few stray tears escape him. Duen stops as soon as he’s fully sheathed in the heat of him, presses kisses to his throat, hums against his pulse, the fingers of one hand drawing out spirals over Bohn’s spine. 

It’s the little things, the gentleness of it, the hand on his back unraveling his body in whorls until Bohn relaxes into the sheets again, murmurs a quiet, gratified praise just barely loud enough for Duen to hear. It’s a lot, but it’s never too much, not with Duen, not for Bohn. It rides that border though, but that almost makes it more worthwhile. Sometimes he needs to be strung too thin, needs to give in and let Duen just read him. After all, no one knows him better.

When Duen moves it’s measured, deliberate, each roll of his hips wringing a new, increasingly needier sound out of Bohn’s lungs. He mouths at his neck, the line of his jaw, the soft hollow of his throat, drinking in every whine and gasp, tasting them with long kisses and Bohn’s face cradled in his hands. When he’s satisfied with that he works on the rest of him, runs tentative fingers over every centimeter of his body, pressing at old marks, fresh bruises, imprints of his own teeth until Bohn shudders on noise that’s too high to be mistaken. 

His back arches, his hands scrabbling for a moment where they’ve already been digging into Duen’s shoulders. It starts in his abdomen and flares upwards, tightens his thighs around Duen’s sides and steals his breath, hot and fierce and just enough. Duen brings his face back around to kiss him through it, the best pleased little growl Bohn’s ever heard on his lips. 

He’s still trembling when Duen shifts his grip down to his hips, oversensitive and the tiniest bit dizzy when he grinds forwards, pushes in and groans as he ties them together. And this, this is Bohn’s favorite part, when he’s spent and full and satisfied enough already to watch through half lidded eyes as Duen comes undone. He loves the sight of it, aches to hear that strangled gasp he always makes when he comes. If anything is too much, it’s this; his boyfriend falling apart just for him, coming inside him in shuddering waves, his hands like brands on Bohn’s hips to keep him buried so deep Bohn can _feel it_ every time the length of him jerks and spills inside. 

Duen drops his head down to Bohn’s sternum, panting out a quiet swear over his chest as he can’t help but try and rut just a little further in, his hips stuttering with faltering restraint as he continues to come. Bohn tangles his fingers in his hair, tastes those pretty pants for himself and peppers the spaces between them with his ever unwavering affections. 

“Love you,” he whispers, “my beautiful, perfect boy. I love you so much.”

~~~***~~~

A week after their shared cycle, Bohn gets fucking accosted in his own damn living room. Well, okay, accosted is a bit of a strong word. Maybe. Probably. But it still freaks him the hell out to wake up from a lazy nap on the sofa to find Duen braced over top of him, staring down at him with dark eyes and flared nostrils. 

“Holy _shit_!” Bohn yelps. He scrambles to sit up, forcing Duen to lean back and settle over his lap. “Are you trying to scare the actual soul out of me!?”

To his surprise Duen just looks confused, and Bohn watches as he shakes his head once, twice, and blinks at him owlishly. “No? But you smell really good, so I wanted to . . .” He draws off with a nervous half smile, the tiniest bit of bemusement still in his gaze as he glances at Bohn out of the corners of his eyes.

Bohn sighs, hooks an arm around his neck and pulls him to him. “Fuck. That’s fine, just wake me up first. You almost gave me a heart attack.”

For some reason that draws a much too genuine noise of distress from Duen, and he folds over him with the weight of it, presses his face to the crook of Bohn’s neck and whuffs out a strangled, “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

Stilling in his arms, Bohn mulls over the oddity of the situation. Duen usually doesn’t hesitate to just wake him up if he needs something unless he thinks Bohn could use the rest. But he’s been doing nothing but laze around since his last test, since the heat, the hours between dropping Ben off at school and picking him up again spent on videogames and unnecessary naps. Suspicious, he asks, “Do I look tired?”

“No,” Duen replies almost immediately, the single syllable practically a purr as he rubs his cheek over Bohn’s neck. “But I thought I should let you sleep anyways. Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Apparently though, smelling good is an _extreme understatement_. Whenever they’re home together from that day forward Duen is _relentless_ about scenting him. He stops every time they pass each other while doing chores to either bury his face in the crook of Bohn’s neck or run his wrists over some part of his body. Half the time Bohn’s not even sure he knows he’s doing it, as he only pauses in the midst of the act when he’s directly called out. He hums out apologies every time, mostly unbothered, and kisses the places he’s claimed. 

For the most part Bohn isn’t too concerned. He figures it’s just an effect of going off the hormone blockers. If anything he’s rather pleased by it, flattered and a little flustered whenever Duen deigns to pin him up against something just to run his hands over him, inhale the smell of him and add his own to the mix. If this is the reward he gets just by being an omega, he’s almost mad he didn’t toss the damn pills out sooner. 

He does find it a bit weird though that no one else seems to notice it. He asks Frong over one of their initially begrudging biweekly coffee dates that by now have turned into amicable coffee dates. Frong just wrinkles his nose at him though and scoffs, like he’s offended to be asked such a thing. Which is fair, but still rude. And just to be an asshole, Bohn immediately asks Thara instead once they get back to the apartment building. 

Thara at least is patient with him, a little exasperated and a tad bemused, but patient. “Nothing unusual,” he notes, and Bohn sticks his tongue out over his shoulder as he catches sight of Frong baring his teeth at him, his hackles rising. “But I’d keep an eye on it. Going off medication like that can have some side effects.” 

Whatever it is though, Bohn really can’t complain. Not when he’s getting so much of his boyfriend’s attention, and especially not when it has Duen tipping him over onto their bed almost every single night. He’s practically insatiable, warm and attentive, praising everything Bohn does, every kiss shared and every roll of their bodies as if these things they’re well practiced at by now are worthy of such compliments. Hell, Bohn wouldn’t even really call it fucking, it’s way too tender for that, too sweet. It’s peppered with butterfly kisses left over every bit of skin, soft bites mouthed into the curve of his neck and along his shoulders and thighs. And it’s not like he’s never called it making love before (Duen pretty much exclusively calls it that), but for once Bohn can’t describe it as anything but. He feels pampered by it, breathlessly adored, and he’s so unbearably happy he almost doesn’t know what to do with himself.

And then Duen gets weird. Or, weirder. Bohn returns from getting groceries one afternoon, Ben hanging off his back as he kicks the door open to drag the reusable bags over the threshold, and Duen gives him the hardest side-eye he’s ever received in his life.

"You went out?” Duen asks over the top of the book he’s clearly not actually reading. Bohn’s pretty sure it’s one of the ones they bought just to decorate their coffee table, the kind of book meant to be pointed at and exclaimed over without ever being opened. 

Bohn sets the bags down and lets Ben slide off him to go change out of his school clothes. “Uh, I go out every day,” he reminds. “We have a kid that needs rides to and from school.”

“He’ll be out of school for awhile starting next week,” Duen says stiffly. “You didn’t have to go to the store, though, I could have done that.”

“Yeah,” Bohn shrugs, “But you always do that. I have hands.” He wiggles them in the air pointedly. “And you keep the grocery list pinned to the fridge. I don’t mind getting it once in awhile.” Fuck him for being helpful, or whatever, Bohn supposes with a snort. Are they really going to fight about this?

“What if you’d gotten hurt?”

Okay, what the actual fuck? Bohn whips around from where he’s been trying to sort out the produce, leveling Duen with a glare. “Really? You want to go at it over me getting the shopping? What the hell do you mean ‘what if I’d gotten hurt?’ It’s the _grocery store_ , Duen. You’re freaking me out.”

Duen has never been the overprotective sort. A little possessive at times, maybe, but only where it matters, where Bohn is more than happy to allow it. When Duen stands and sets the book aside Bohn watches him out of the corners of his eyes, concern spiking as Duen moves to the windows, then the door, checking the latches. _Prowling_ , he realizes with mounting alarm, he’s prowling again. 

“Baby,” he whispers, abandoning the produce to reach for him, take Duen’s face between his hands and study his eyes. They’re no darker than usual, his pupils a normal size for the lighting in the kitchen, but his nostrils flare when Bohn touches him. “Baby, what’s wrong? Why are you . . .” He doesn’t smell the way he does before a rut, not even when Bohn wraps his arms around his shoulders and presses his face into the scent glands at his neck. Why is he so worked up then? He’s clearly uneasy about something, because what Bohn does pick up from him tinges too close to real fear for his comfort. “The apartment is safe,” he says steadily near Duen’s ear. “I'm home. Ben’s home. Everyone’s okay."

Duen’s arms come up around his middle. He squeezes back, but not very hard, and Bohn murmurs a poorly repressed noise of near distress. “Sorry,” Duen mumbles into his shoulder. “I just . . . I couldn’t stop thinking about what I would do if something bad happened while you were gone.”

“I was just at the store,” Bohn reminds gently. 

“You could have slipped on the tile,” Duen says, and Bohn’s eyes widen as he doesn’t even take a breath before continuing, “or been robbed. You could have gotten into a car crash, or even-”

“ _Duen_ ,” Bohn gasps, hoarse and horrified. “That’s not- why would you do that to yourself? Nothing’s going to happen to me, I’m fine.”

Duen inhales sharply, presses closer, leans into him a little harder. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I got home and you weren’t here and I . . . I was _so worried_.” His voice cracks, and Bohn can only stand there as hot tears start to soak into the shoulder of his shirt. “I got so scared,” Duen sobs, “I don’t know why! I wanted to be there with you to keep you safe, and I knew you were probably just out at the store or something but I- _I don’t know why_.”

It takes him a good while longer than he’d like to console his boyfriend, each minute that drags on slightly worse than the last. It’s been quite awhile since he’s seen Duen cry, and every time it makes another jagged little tear in his heart. Duen only cries when he’s genuinely, unshakably upset. And he’s upset about Bohn going to the fucking grocery store, of all things.

Bohn feels unquestionably terrible in the wake of it, unsure of how to fix things even though he knows he didn’t do anything wrong. For all intents and purposes Duen worked himself up into this state. But it feels like more than that, the reaction too real for it not to be. The fear had been too honest to be anything but exactly what it was. Duen had been _terrified_ just because he didn’t know where Bohn was for a half hour. 

They sleep close together that night, tangled up even more than they usually are. The next morning though Bohn watches over a bowl of cereal as Duen paces the apartment as soon as he wakes up, checks the locks, the windows, and then the locks again. “Maybe we shouldn’t go out this weekend,” Duen says after awhile.

“We’ll invite Ram and King to our place instead,” Bohn agrees. If it settles Duen down, keeps Bohn from having to see him cry again, he’ll do anything. 

Things explode when they have their friends over for dinner though, because of course they do. That’s just how Bohn’s life seems to go. One second Ram is passing him a plate that’s just a little too hot, and Bohn hisses between his teeth as he makes contact with it, pulling his hand back, and the next second Duen has launched himself across the entire fucking table and tackled Ram to the floor.

Food flies everywhere and the plate shatters as it crashes to the ground. King is out of his seat, shouting and horrified as Duen spits and snarls, lashing out with enough fury that it’s very, _very_ clear that he actually means to hurt Ram. “What are you _doing_!?” King screams.

Bohn stares at them for a second too long, taken aback and frozen in place until he hears Ben yelp as the two alphas roll towards where he’s sitting. He snaps out of it, scrambling across the top of the table and gathering Ben up into his arms. Distantly he laments that he’s getting too big for this with his gangly nine-year-old limbs, but for now he’s luckily still just small enough for Bohn to lift him with ease, bundle him out of the room and lock him in his bedroom to startled protests. When he reemerges nothing has changed. Duen is still a growling, unrestrained mess, his eyes wild and his pupils so small that they’ve almost disappeared into his irises. The only difference in the room is that King has moved to the side, his hands over his mouth.

“He’s not fighting back,” King whispers when Bohn makes his way over. “Why is he not- he’s going to get _hurt_.”

It’s true. Ram isn’t fighting back so much as he is simply grappling with Duen. He doesn’t seem to have gotten any injuries, yet, but Bohn chalks that up to his actual fighting experience moreso than the situation. Duen is so unshacklingly angry though it’s only a matter of time. Ram should fight back, he thinks, if only because he’s pretty sure he could pin Duen easily. Despite his smaller stature, he’s unquestionably stronger. Why doesn’t he fight back?

To his shock though, Duen manages to get a hand around Ram’s neck, and Ram quits struggling immediately. King gasps into his palms and tries to step forwards to get in between them, but a low growl tears out of Ram’s throat and stops him in his place.

“Don’t,” Ram says through his teeth. “Stay back. Don’t move. It’s his apartment, I’m not going to fight him in his own territory.”

Ah, Bohn musesly grimly. Ever the proper alpha, Ram. Normally Bohn’s pretty sure Duen wouldn’t actually care, but right now he definitely does. Losing a fight while he’s like this, while he’s half feral and furious, that wouldn’t end well. 

However, that only applies to losing a fight to another alpha.

Bohn steps forwards, pushing King soundly behind him before he grabs Duen by the collar of his shirt and uses the momentum to throw him over backwards onto the hardwood. Ram sits up and scrambles away immediately, but Bohn doesn’t pay him any mind. Duen’s on his feet in a second, is trying to bypass him to get back to his target, and Bohn grabs him by the wrists and pushes him down with a knee to the chest, his teeth bared. “Stop! _Stop_! Duen, what _the fuck_!?”

To his surprise Duen goes down without protest, falling utterly still beneath him other than the ragged rise and fall of his chest. Bohn can feel King and Ram’s eyes on him without looking up, but he does his best to brush aside the thought of an audience. What the actual fuck is happening? Even close to his ruts Duen has never attacked anyone, let alone another alpha. Hell, Ram has been around the apartment before within days of them, well within the timeframe of Duen’s pacing territorialness. Duen has never been that kind of alpha. Ever.

Except . . . Bohn frowns, a tiny inkling tickling at the back of his mind. Duen has never been that kind of alpha, except for where his instincts totally override his logic. Something’s wrong. Something’s _off_. But what?

Is this some kind of side effect of the stress induced rut? A prolonged and misplaced aftershock of possessiveness? It matches up with some of the other things that Duen’s been doing, Bohn supposes. The continued prowling, the increase in scenting, hell even the nightly sex. But the rut was almost a month ago now. Surely side effects couldn’t linger that long? Even if Bohn’s off hormone blockers now, his unrestrained omega scent can’t be having _that much_ of an effect. Right? “Ram didn’t hurt me,” he finds himself saying, and stares down at Duen as his breath catches and turns into a thrummed sound of disbelief. That’s what this is about, isn’t it, a manifestation of the earlier fears that had lead to his breakdown. “He didn’t,” Boh reiterates. “Look,” he holds up his hand to Duen’s face. There’s just the faintest trace of pink on the tip of his index finger, but he doesn't shy away as Duen noses into his palm anyways. He keeps his grip on Duen’s wrists though, stays straddling his chest so he can’t get up, because when Duen blinks at him again his pupils are still just pinpricks. 

God damn it, why is he so pissed? The last time Bohn had even seen him half that upset was when another kid had pushed Ben off the side of the playground a year ago. The second Duen noticed Ben had sprained his ankle in the scuffle he’d flipped out so hard Bohn had had to drag him kicking and growling back to the car. 

“He didn’t hurt me,” he says again, but it comes out fainter as the answer wiggles its way to the forefront of his mind. Duen had been saying he smelled good, that he smelled _different_. Fuck, it _can’t be_. Cold dread sinks into his stomach, twists and claws at his insides until he inhales a sharp, terrified breath. “King,” he whispers hoarsely. “I need you to do me a favor.”

King gives him a dirty look over his shoulder where he’s crouched beside Ram, but his face softens almost immediately once he registers the tone. Ram isn’t hurt, Bohn can see, and relief courses through him as King scoots across the floor to his side. “What’s up?”

“I need you to get me something from the store.”

~~~***~~~

Ram and King take Ben with them at Bohn’s request with promises of puppies and sleepovers, and Bohn is so grateful to them he wants to cry. It’s going to be hard enough facing Duen with this, there’s no way he’d be able to break the news to Ben in the same night.

He can hear Duen pacing around outside the bathroom door, which is what he’s been doing that pretty much since the exact second their guests had left. His footsteps fade away and then circle back around again, even and heavy, like he’s trying to make a point just by walking even though Bohn can tell he’s freaking the hell out. He’s muttering to himself, soft curses of, “ _So fucking stupid. What is wrong with me?_ ” that make guilt wash through him anew. This is his fault. Duen’s smart, really smart, more than smart enough to push back against that sort of primal behavior if he knows the cause behind it. But he hadn’t. He’d reacted on pure instinct, overwhelmed without the knowledge to back the drive behind the fury. 

Bohn doesn’t know how to tell him, but the pacing is getting worse by the second. He hears the locks on the front doors being checked, unclicked and then clicked back into place, and he pushes the heel of his free hand into his eye with a choked little noise he regrets immediately. 

The pacing makes its way back to just outside the door again, and Bohn closes his eyes and sucks in an unsteady inhale. If he waits for too long it will be that much harder, he reasons with himself. The sooner he gets this over with, the better.

He opens the door, unsurprised to find Duen standing just on the other side of it and wringing his hands. God, he looks miserable, strung out and pale, and if it weren’t for the bombshell Bohn’s about to drop he would hug him. It’ll hurt less, he thinks, to do this with a bit of physical distance between them. He’ll lose the last, already thin thread of his hold on his emotions if he has to actually feel Duen’s reaction with touch. 

Slowly, he holds out the stick, averting his eyes as Duen takes it gingerly in his hands and stares down at it. He doesn’t want to see what kind of face he’ll make.

Duen’s quiet for a long minute, palpable and silent confusion hanging in the air. “This is . . .” he whispers, and Bohn feels like he’s going to be sick. “. . . Oh. _Oh_ , _Bohn_ . . .”

The tears well up before he can stop them, and Bohn balls up the sleeves of his sweater into his hands as he furiously tries to wipe them away before they stream down his cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he gasps, his breath hiccuping out of him in bursts. “It’s all my fault. I missed a day, I counted the pills just now and I- I must have missed a day during finals right before the heat and- _god_ , I can’t believe I’m so fucking stupid that I’ve done this _again_. I’m so sorry, I-”

“Why are you apologizing?” Duen whispers. He’s standing a half step closer now, the stick set aside on the nearby table. Wildly, Bohn thinks about how good he is, how easy he reads him to understand that he doesn’t want to be touched right now, wouldn’t be able to bear it. But that just makes it worse, because he’s fucked everything up and now he’s going to lose that.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows he’s being irrational, that he’s working his way through every worst fear and letting it flicker into a half life before him, but he can’t stop. He’s fucked up twice now. _Twice_. “I’m sorry,” he sobs again, because he has nothing better to say, no other platitudes to offer. He’s not trying to save face, or even console. He’s just _sorry_. And Duen can decipher that however he wants. 

“Can I touch you?”

Sometimes Bohn hates how careful Duen is with him, how considering, even though he’s well aware he wouldn’t be able to handle anything else. Whenever he asks those questions, the simple ones that really shouldn’t be this hard, it makes Bohn reel. It forces him to come up with an answer, to push away his instinctual, defensive rejection and acknowledge what he actually wants. He scrubs his sleeves over his eyes again and nods.

Duen’s fingers press tentatively to his face, over his jawline and cheeks, and Bohn shivers on another sob as he steps into his space and pulls him into his arms. When Duen rubs his cheek over his neck Bohn can’t help but sag against him, weak with relief even though he knew, of course he knew, that even something like this wouldn’t make Duen leave. The comfort of their scents mixing together over his skin is immediate, warm and grounding, and Bohn buries his face in his boyfriend’s shoulder with a broken whimper. Duen cards his fingers through his hair, his other hand drawing letters lazily along his back. He spells out “รัก” across Bohn’s shoulder blades, his spine, the small of his back, over and over and over again until Bohn stops shaking, can take a long, deep breath into his lungs without choking on it. 

When silence finally fills the air, punctuated only by their soft and simultaneous inhales and exhales, he voices the question Bohn has been dreading. “What do you want to do?”

They’ve talked about it before, the fact that Bohn hadn’t been given a choice the last time. Even if he had he wouldn't have gone through with it, but the lack of options had always made him sick, left him cold. It’s the same now, and he knows that Duen already knows that, too. Guilt, though, tastes like bile on his tongue anyways. Duen’s still in school, has three years of interning at the clinic left ahead of him. They’d had a plan, and this wasn’t it. Regardless, though, “I want to keep it.”

The thought of doing anything else makes his chest hurt.

“You’re sure?” Duen says quietly. He’s still writing “love” on Bohn’s back, hasn’t faltered for a second. 

“Yeah,” Bohn whispers. The option is nice, soothing in its own way. It leaves him a level of control over this that he’d sorely lacked the last time, and he appreciates it more than he can ever say. But it was always off the table for him. Even with every obstacle still ahead, with three years of plans he’s about to dash against the rocks, he could never. Especially not when, “It’s yours,” he says, and it comes out so much fiercer than he intends, almost a growl. “It’s _yours_ , and I want it.”

He’s startled when Duen’s arms tighten around him, squeezing but not too hard, the faintest tremble shaking through him. “O-okay,” he says against Bohn’s neck. “Th-that’s good. Really good. Cause I, uh, I want it too.”

 _What_?

He’s crying, Bohn realizes. He can feel the tears dripping down onto his collarbone from where Duen is rubbing his cheek against his neck. For a moment he doesn’t even know what to do, too stunned and utterly taken aback that he's being cried on twice in a matter of days to even breathe properly. But then Duen’s arms slip lower, tighten around his waist, and Bohn yelps as he’s pulled off his feet and spun around the room. His hands settle on Duen’s shoulders just for something to hang on to, and he stares down at his flushed cheeks dancing with tears, the broad grin that matches the crescent curve of his eyes, and Bohn’s heart soars. They’re not sad tears, they’re _delighted_. 

“A baby!” Duen laughs, spinning him back around until his toes find the floor again. “God, Bohn, I’m so- I’m _so happy_!”

It almost doesn’t feel real, actually, Bohn thinks as he blinks at him. The air is high with nothing but elation, the last traces of fear that had tinged it chased out in an instant, and his heart thunders in his chest with such rapid disbelief it leaves him dizzy. “Really?” he can’t help but whisper even though he already knows. 

“Of course!” Duen says without even a hint of hesitation. “I mean, yeah the timing isn’t fantastic, but we’ll make it work. _A baby_ , Bohn,” he breathes, and the words sound wonderous on his lips. “ _Yours_. **_Mine_**." And then his eyes widen. "Oh. Oh my god! It's mine!"

Bohn reels back, offended, "Uh, yeah? Of course it's yours."

Duen smacks a hand over his mouth to muffle a laugh. "No, not like that. Don't give me that look." Bohn gives him the look anyways. "I mean," Duen continues, "that it's _mine_ , that's why I've been like this. _I knew_. Not like consciously, but some part of me definitely knew." He drapes an arm over Bohn's shoulder and uses his other hand to tug him a fraction closer by his hip. "Come here."

Bohn does so readily, relaxing immediately as Duen tucks his head into the crook of his neck and noses up against the underside of his jaw. "Do I really smell that different?" he asks. 

Duen hums, nuzzling into his neck further. "Not that anyone else would be able to tell yet, I don't think. But you're _mine_. You _both_ are," he says softly. "It was just different enough for me to notice, but not so strong I was able to actually figure out what was going on. Sorry,” he laughs, “But I’m not actually all that sorry at all.”

Oh? Bohn twists a little in his arms, just enough so he can tilt his head to the side and catch Duen’s eyes where he’s resting his cheek on his shoulder. “You’re . . . Not sorry?” he clarifies.

A little huff escapes him, and Duen rolls his eyes. “I’ll apologize to Ram, that was definitely out of line. The other stuff though . . . That’s what I’m supposed to do, you know that right? That’s kind of like my job.”

His job. It hits him then what Duen’s been doing without realizing, the exact explanations for his actions the past few weeks that go a bit deeper than just basic and mundane alpha territorial behavior. He’s been making sure the environment, and Bohn for that matter, are as safe and stress free as possible. Bohn mulls this revelation over, or at least he pretends to, letting Duen’s statement hang in the air with a note of consideration. “You know,” he muses aloud, “I was a little stressed earlier. Peeing on a stick is very stressful.”

Duen chokes on a laugh against his shoulder and straightens up, his hands already gliding down Bohn’s sides. “Really now.”

“Oh yeah,” Bohn says with a wave of his hand. “Super stressed. Also, Ram burnt my hand, did you see that?” He holds up his barely singed finger, watching as Duen bites at the inside of his lip to keep from laughing. “Attacked in my own home after you worked so hard to flick the locks a few times.”

“Oh, excuse me,” Duen deadpans. “How could I have been so careless? I’ll make it up to you immediately.” 

He’s such a good sport, Bohn thinks giddily when the hands slide down his back, palm at his ass, and Bohn all but purrs as he’s urged closer. His arms wind over Duen’s shoulders, and when those wandering fingers press against his thighs he jumps, chuckling when Duen staggers just a bit as his legs wrap around his waist. “Too heavy?” he teases.

“Not _yet_ ,” Duen emphasizes, and Bohn can hear the grin in his tone even as he shivers.

He bounces once on the mattress when Duen deposits him in their bedroom and reclines back, watching with half-lidded eyes as his boyfriend divests himself of his shirt before climbing over him. “You only like me for my body,” he snickers when Duen leans down to rub his cheek over his neck again, his hands sliding up under Bohn’s clothes. 

“Well I certainly didn’t pick you for your brain,” Duen quips back easily, and Bohn tumbles back into the sheets with a bark of a laugh as his sweater is tugged off and tossed across the room. He’s dragged back up in the next instant, Duen cupping the sides of his face when he kisses him, darting his tongue into his mouth and nibbling at his bottom lip. “God,” he breathes, “Bohn. I can’t even believe. . .” He draws away, the perfect amount of space put between them for Bohn to flicker his eyes open and stare up at the dark outline of Duen's pupils eclipsing his irises, feel the heat of his breath across his lips. “Bohn,” he whispers, so reverent that Bohn knows that sound is going to be burned into his mind forever, “I can’t believe you’re going to have my baby.”

And really, Bohn can still hardly believe it either. It doesn’t quite feel real yet, might not for a little while longer. To have everything he’s ever asked for within his grasp always seemed like more of a pipe dream than a potential reality. His mind spins a bit every time it starts to sink in fully, and he brushes aside thoughts of everything they’ll have to do, all the preparations that need to be made, to linger in this specific moment just a little while longer. 

He wants to bask in this quiet evening as much as he can, lavished under Duen’s attention, spoiled by his affection. Whether or not he’s really done anything to deserve it is up for debate, but for now he’s happy with it. He wants to soak up every second, relish in even the smallest kiss, the lightest touch, each one leaving him feeling more heated and cherished than the last. And maybe it’s the fact that he’s not sure he deserves it that makes it better, because Duen doesn’t seem to think about those sorts of things. He keeps Bohn close like he’s something worth keeping, trails his mouth down his body like it was made to be mapped by him. Bohn doesn’t miss the way he lingers where he might not usually, how his fingers fan out over his abdomen, heedless of the old scar or of Bohn’s sharp inhale when he presses a kiss there. 

Duen moves lower, and Bohn’s breath staggers out of him as he arcs an arm over his head to grip at the sheets when his pants and underwear are hauled off with purpose. He lets his head fall back into the pillows, anticipation already burning through him as Duen works his way down, bites at the inside of his thighs, and then his legs are pulled up over his boyfriend’s shoulders. His back arches at the first press of a tongue to his center and he gasps out a startled little, “ _Ah_!” that only serves to make Duen grip his thighs harder and waste no time in plunging it _in_. Bohn keens, and he reaches down to tangle his fingers in Duen’s hair only to be batted away.

Duen glances up at him, swipes his tongue over his lips, and says lowly, “Hands above your head.”

Bohn nods, his chest already heaving as he twists the sheets behind him up against his palms. This time when Duen ducks his head down he goes torturously slow. Bohn’s fingers clench in the fabric the next time he dips his tongue in, and he groans as it’s almost immediately removed again, pressed flat against the core of him and drawn up, stopping just short of where he really wants it. He lets Duen continue without protest though, tries his damndest not to squeeze his thighs against the side of his head every time he shivers in the wake of it, heat working its way up through his body in breathless ripples. 

“Duen,” he mewls eventually, unable to take it anymore, brought too frustratingly close to the edge and back again because Duen is a fucking _tease_ whenever he does this. “ _Fuck_ , come on! Either finish me or fuck me, I _can’t_ -”

Duen peeks up at him again, his eyes hooded and his mouth wet and smug. Bohn tries to level him with a glare but doesn't quite manage it and ends up collapsing back into the pillows again with a strangled whine. “Ask nicely,” Duen hums.

Sometimes, like now, Bohn really regrets teaching him all the ways to best take him apart and drive him absolutely wild. That information was meant for his pleasure, not for Duen to make him _beg_. It’s a good thing he’s totally not above begging, then, and a better one that Duen clearly really, _really_ enjoys it when he does. “Please,” he pants. “Fuck, please just-” Duen still hasn’t moved, though Bohn can feel the flex of his fingers where he’s holding his thighs open. “- _please_. I want to come, baby.”

It’s worth it, first and foremost for the satisfied smirk he gets, and secondly for the way Duen follows that by latching his lips over the bud of nerves he’s been neglecting and sucking.

Bohn keens, his back bowing off the bed again as a thunderstorm lights up inside him, swearing as he clenches down around nothing. It’s fierce, it’s fast, and it leaves him aching as he trembles apart, twisting the sheets so hard under his hands he fears he’ll tear them. Duen holds the lower half of him still, keeps him from squirming away just from how unbearably sensitive he is in the wake of it. “Fuck,” Bohn gasps out on a heavy exhale, another too shallow inhale. “ _Fuck_.”

Duen’s grip shifts a little higher as he gets to his knees, and Bohn tilts his head to the side to watch him out of the corner of his vision. He’s always loved that intense look he gets, the dark eyes coupled with the barest parting of Duen’s lips. It makes it seem like he’s slightly star struck, amazed and unquestionably hungry. And under it, Bohn can't help but feel dazed. How can he not be? He’ll never stop being blown away that that look is for _him_. “Good?” Duen asks as he hitches Bohn’s legs up around his waist. He always asks, and even though he’s still dizzy, Bohn nods.

He doesn’t move his hands from where they’re still fisted into the sheets when Duen presses into him, and he bites down on his lip to try and muffle a groan, his head thrown back against the pillows and his chest heaving with each ragged breath. Fresh off the heels of an orgasm and outside of his heat, just the initial connection has him panting, leaves him flushed and choking on tiny, oversensitive whines. His arms are shaking, his fingers flexing in the fabric bunched up beneath them, and Bohn squeezes his eyes shut with another gasp. He feels the mattress dip a little on either side of his head, and he reaches up instinctively, trades his grip on the sheets for a new one over Duen’s shoulders. 

Duen drops down onto an elbow on one side, and Bohn sighs in relief as he uses his other hand to gather him closer. He buries his face into the crook of Duen’s neck, murmuring some nonsensical sound over his skin before he finds the words for what he really wants to say. “Come on baby,” he whispers, digging his heels into the small of Duen’s back and tightening his arms around his shoulders, “show me how much you love me.”

As much as he enjoys the frenzy of the heat, the rut, Bohn finds the sex outside of it more gratifying. There’s something wholly better about being taken on their bed, slowly, carefully, Duen kissing and nosing at the side of his neck every time he rolls his hips. They aren’t bound by their instincts this way, aren’t compelled by the overflow of hormones and the unquenchable ache of their bodies. Instead, Bohn likes the moments they choose to come together on their own, if only because it’s the simplest way to prove that he’s wanted. Words can only do so much for him, his life already filled with half truths and empty promises. But when Duen kisses him willingly, holds him close like this just because he can, Bohn believes in those star crossed vows so fiercely it hurts. 

And even though he doesn’t have to, doesn’t actually need it in the months in between those insatiable days of desire, he always asks for more anyways. “Knot me,” Bohn demands, his voice pitching higher as he feels the swell of it pressing, grinding against him. So close, not yet enough. “Please, please please plea- _hah_!”

Duen gives him room to breathe when he arches up again, stares down at him with enraptured wonder Bohn can feel even with his eyes closed. He cries out, seizes up, and relishes in the gasp Duen lets out when he can’t help but clench down around him over and over and over again as heat coils and tightens deep, _deep_. The fact that his own orgasm has the added bonus of tipping his boyfriend over the edge too makes him smirk, a weird sort of pride blooming behind his ribs as he cracks open his eyes to watch Duen choke on a moan and brace a hand to his chest and shudder apart in a few half jerks and presses. Bohn takes the hand splayed over his sternum and threads their fingers together, lets them drop down at his side as Duen pants out a hoarse little noise and falls back down to his elbows across him. 

He’s careful, Bohn notes, not to put too much weight on him, and he wonders faintly why he didn’t notice that before. But he’s sure it’s just one of those things that seems more obvious in hindsight, and goes easily overlooked in the moment. They’re both still breathing hard, and Bohn traces out unsteady shapes over Duen’s back with his free hand and leaves a satisfied kiss over the slope of his shoulder. “Stress relief achieved,” he praises, and Duen snickers against the side of his neck.

~~~***~~~

They come to an agreement, unanimously and almost without even having to talk about it first, that before they tell anyone else, they have to tell Ben. 

And before they do that, Bohn has to tell Ben a lot of things.

He’d been saving it for after graduation, willing to stick to the exact terms of what had been agreed upon nine years prior when he had felt like the gravitas of his signature forfeiting his own freedom had mattered more than anything else in his life. But there are things that matter more, silent promises to keep and even quieter ones to acknowledge, and Bohn already feels like he’s waited long enough. Doing this one week earlier than he’d originally intended won’t make a difference in the end. What will is how he goes about it, what he says.

He does not expect forgiveness or acceptance, no matter how much he may foolishly hope for it. And he makes sure to tell Duen as much.

“You’re sure you don’t at least want me in the room?” Duen asks, and Bohn can hear the worry in his tone, doesn’t miss how it wavers at the end, and he shakes his head.

“No.” He knows his own kid well enough, despite everything, and he’s almost certain how he’ll react. Not the initial reaction, but the aftermath, the explosion. Bohn has no idea what will come after that, but Duen shouldn’t be there. He should be here, instead, here in Ben’s room where Bohn is making him stay and wait. This is where Ben will run when it’s over, and Bohn knows with a painful twist in his chest that Duen will be the person he’ll want to run to. “I want you to stay here,” he says out loud, and he regrets how firmly he says it, hates the way Duen’s eyes widen as he realizes it’s an order. “You have to stay with him, okay? Even if you- even if you hear me crying, after, I want you _here_.”

More than anything, it’s Ben that’s important. Bohn knows Duen understands that and shares the feeling just as fiercely. But he makes sure to say it all anyways, make it clear who out of the two of them Duen needs to be comforting tonight. 

“Bohn,” Duen whispers, and the sound of his concern _hurts_. 

He stays put though, doesn’t say anything more as Bohn kisses his forehead and leaves the room. What could he even really tell him that hasn’t already been said? Bohn knows all the things he could say, and he steals them close to his heart as he strides into the living room to where Ben is sitting in the corner of the sofa with his tablet. No matter what, at the end of the day he still has those things to ground him, a litany of softly shared words and reassurances that even if he comes away from this hated, there’s going to be someone who still loves him regardless. 

As he sits down on the other side of the couch, careful to leave space between them, Bohn finds himself wishing one last time that he could just start over. But time is relentless, is ticking away more even as he sucks in a shaky, steadying breath, and he’s already wasted too much of it to continue throwing away more on fantasies of a life he’ll never have.

“Hey, can I talk to you for a second?”

Ben blinks up at him over the rim of his tablet, and Bohn watches his gaze shutter just slightly before he sets it aside and sits up a little. “‘Bout what?”

Were he a better parent, a better father, didn’t fear this moment so much, Bohn would want to hold his hand while he does this. He craves the physical contact, but knows he hasn’t yet earned it, not for this moment. His fingers twitch for want of it at his side anyways, but he doesn’t give in to that impulse, clenches them instead over his knees. “You know the Sirikarnkuls aren’t your parents, right?” he asks, just to clarify. It’s been almost a year since he even lived with them part time, so if he did think that Bohn doesn’t even know what he’d do. Ben has never referred to his grandparents in anything other than strictly formal terms, and never parental ones. 

Ben nods.

“Okay.” His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, too thick to speak properly, and it takes him a long moment to find the next well practiced thing he wants to say. “Did you ever wonder who your parents were, then?”

This time Ben shakes his head.

Oh.

Unrehearsed, he finds himself asking, “Did you want to know?” He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Ben actually just straight up doesn’t care. He never considered that option, and he swallows around the lump it leaves in his throat. Some adopted kids never seek out their birth parents, he remembers suddenly. And if that’s what Ben wants, he’s not sure he can fault him for that enough to come clean. 

Ben doesn’t answer, and Bohn risks meeting his eyes to find that he’s slowly grasping for one of the throw pillows between them. He watches as Ben gets ahold of it and pulls it up, clutching it to his chest for a long minute before he finally whispers, “Why are you telling me now?”

Bohn stares at him, his mind whirling as he tries to figure out what’s happening, his script crumbling into dust in his head.

“Why are you telling me now!?” Ben asks again, and this time it’s high, strained, practically a wail. There are tears brimming in the corners of his eyes, huge ones that spill over as he sucks in a hiccup of a breath, and Bohn doesn’t know what to _do_. “Are you getting rid of me!? Is this because you’re-” Ben cuts himself off with a truly wretched sob. “ _Why are you telling me now_!?”

He knew. It sinks like a stone in Bohn’s chest, drags at his heart until he’s sure it stops beating entirely. “Ben,” he tries hoarsely, “Ben, I’m so-”

Ben is on his feet before he can finish, throwing the pillow right into his face with every bit of his nine year old might, more than enough to make Bohn startle and slump back into the cushions as it falls to his lap. The boy is shaking, red faced and struggling to breathe, and each time he does it chokes out of him in a sob. “You’re replacing me!” he screams. “I know you are! You’re having a new baby and _replacing me_!”

Oh. Fuck. “Ben, _no_ ,” Bohn says, standing. " _No, no, no_. We would never-”

And then, just as Bohn had feared, Ben looks up at him with distraught, tear filled eyes and yells, “I _hate_ you!” with every ounce of air left in his lungs.

He’s gone before Bohn can touch him, say anything, bounding right over top of the coffee table and haring off into his room. The door slams, but Bohn’s already falling to his knees before the sound vibrates across the apartment, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes as he realizes he can still hear Ben crying through the walls. They’re great, heaving, body wracking sobs, and Bohn shudders on one of his own as they reach his ears.

Somehow, that went _worse_ than he ever could have imagined, and he’s almost amazed by how outstandingly he managed to fuck that up. Or he would be, if this all wasn’t his own fault anyways. It’s just one more successive mistake in a long, endless list of them. If anything, he supposes he would have been more surprised if it had gone well. 

This was always how it was going to end though, and Bohn knew that deep down. He’d prepared for it, had cried for it already more times than he could even begin to count. Still, it rends at something inside him, rips and tears and claws at his insides until he’s gasping on hitched and broken sobs of his own.

He’d held Ben when he was born and told him he loved him, whispered it secretly in the dark over and over again until he’d healed enough to be sent back to school. It had been a promise, a poorly kept secret, bound with the desperate hope that he’d be able to do it again and not have to let go.

And in the end, he hadn’t even gotten to touch him one last time before Ben had told him he hated him. 

~~~***~~~

Bohn doesn’t remember how he got to bed. He vaguely recalls standing back up, sort of, but it’s all kind of a blur from there. His mouth has the faintest trace of mint, so he must have brushed his teeth, and he’s wearing a pair of pajama pants and one of Duen’s t-shirts that still smells like him, which means he must have taken it straight out of the laundry basket. 

The room is dark, shadow cast and hazy as he tries to blink away whatever restless sleep he’d managed to get. His vision stays blurry though, and he pushes himself up onto an elbow to rub his wrists over his eyes. When his hand comes away wet the hollowness settles in his chest anew, colder, sharper, and Bohn pulls his knees up to rest his forehead against them.

It’s been a long, long time since he slept in his own bed alone. The other side of the mattress looms like an echo, the empty image of it reverberating in his head even when he closes his eyes, and he reminds himself that he asked for this. He takes small relief in knowing that at least. There's solace in the thought of Duen curled around Ben two doors down the hall, a comfort where Bohn is no longer, and perhaps has never been wanted. 

After awhile, time passed just sitting there in the dark, quiet and desolate, Bohn gets up. He’s starving, enough so that he can tell he didn’t eat before collapsing, and while he’s nauseous he knows better than to skip a meal, especially right now.

He stumbles out into the living room, wiping at his cheeks with his hands as he goes and finds them stinging, chapped. Bohn winces and pauses in the doorway, leaning heavily against it for a heartbeat before he looks up and nearly falls on his damn ass as he spots someone sitting on his couch.

Someone, in this case being Frong, who’s on his feet the second he notices him. “Don’t freak out,” he says quickly.

“Oh, I’m freaking out,” Bohn replies, grimacing as he notes how terrible his voice sounds. Great. Fantastic. “Why the hell are you in my house at . . .” Actually, he doesn’t know what time it is. Some terrible time of the night, he’s sure. A time when Frong, of all people, should definitely not be sitting on his sofa in the semi-dark.

“It’s a little after three,” Frong supplies, and Bohn levels him with an unamused glare as he stalks past him to the kitchen.

There’s a Tupperware container right at eye level when he opens the fridge, and Bohn takes in the sight of the little blue sticky note pasted to the top of it, the heart hastily scrawled over the paper, and shuts the door again. 

"I’m supposed to make sure you eat that,” Frong says quietly from the couch, but Bohn barely hears him over the ringing in his own ears.

How selfish, he thinks bitterly, for him to be so easily consumed with the desperate need for Duen to hold him when his own fucking kid needs it more right now. Still, he’s dizzy, tears welling in his eyes again even though he could have sworn he ran out of them hours ago. 

He’s painfully aware of when Frong gets up, when he crosses the room to stand a little ways away. He’s aware because he’s _not Duen_ , and Bohn hates him in that moment just for that with every fibre of his being. “You have to eat,” Frong says evenly, heedless of the hoarse growl clawing its way out of Bohn’s chest. “And drink something, too. I brought like, six kinds of juice. You’re probably already dehydrated, so-”

“Fuck. Off.” If he’s supposed to feel bad about being so harsh, Bohn can’t remember why. He glares at Frong out of the corners of his eyes, his lip curling back from his teeth. “Look,” he grits out. “I get why Duen called you, but I don’t want you here. I don’t need another fucking omega in my space right now.” Technically, he doesn’t want _anyone_ near him right now, regardless of status, and the only two people he does want to see he can’t. So what if he takes that out on Frong? Who cares.

Frong rolls his eyes, his arms folding over his chest. “Yes. You do. Someone should be here anyways. You’re going to get fucking sick, Bohn.”

“Then I get sick!” Bohn snaps. “It’s not like I’ve never been sick before, I’ll live! Fuck off and get out of my apartment!” He’s being unreasonable, he knows he is. Frong is just trying to help. But he doesn’t care. _He doesn’t care_. “Don’t make me fight you,” he snarls, annoyed when Frong doesn’t look even a little intimidated, and rather just puts his hands on his hips and levels him with a pissed off glare. “I’ll win,” Bohn warns, “you know I will.”

Frong scoffs, and Bohn adjusts his stance immediately, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. If Frong thinks he’s bluffing, he’s about to be very surprised. The only hangup Bohn has is that it will definitely bring Duen out, but at this point he’s so on edge he almost wants that, too. Before he can lunge for him though Frong rolls his shoulders, tilts his gaze up to the ceiling, and mutters, “I’m not going to fight someone who’s pregnant, you moron.”

Bohn freezes, icy pinpricks of horror crawling through him. _Fuck_. “I’m going back to bed,” he hears himself say, desperate now to just leave this entire situation behind, escape his near and potentially devastating fuckup. But Frong sidesteps in front of him before he can move. 

“You have to eat something,” he says firmly, and Bohn has to look away to keep from growling. “Bohn. You have to.”

Bohn stares at the wall. Every muscle in his body feels tense, a far cry from how he’d woken up just minutes ago still exhausted, and his stomach is roiling with the entire clusterfuck mess of emotions brewed up in less than a day. Even if he does eat, “I’ll throw up,” Bohn whispers. 

Frong doesn’t even flinch. “Okay. But you’ll probably manage to digest some of it before that happens, and at the very least you need to drink something.”

He flinches when Frong steps up to him to get a hand on his shoulder and steers him towards the table, but he doesn’t resist. Or at least he doesn’t resist much, his heels dig in by sheer instinct, but after a stumble he goes, sinking down into the chair that’s pulled out for him. A minute later the little blue sticky note is stuck to the wood of the table in front of him. Bohn moves to grasp it in his shaking hands for a moment before folding it, careful not to crease the heart, and shoving it in the pocket of his pajama pants. “How long have you been here?” he asks quietly.

“Couple of hours,” Frong intones from somewhere behind him in the kitchen over the whir of the microwave. “You were definitely passed out when I got here though. Duen went in to check on you.”

Bohn hates the way his heart flutters at that, hates even more the tentative, “He did?” that slips out.

“Of course he did,” Frong scoffs. “I initially came over because he was worried that if you were in bad shape he’d have to take you to the hospital, and someone needed to stay with Ben.” He glances at him over his shoulder and adds, “You’re doing better than I thought you’d be, though.”

Fucking rude? “What’s that supposed to mean?” Bohn snaps. He doesn’t know what he’s bothered by most, the implication towards his own lack of control or the fact that Duen has clearly told Frong way more than Bohn thinks he needs to know. “You don’t even know what you’re talking about,” he growls, furious now over the fact that Frong obviously _does_. 

Frong rolls his eyes, “Bohn. He smells like you. He lives with you. I think the only one who maybe didn’t know out of our friend group was Phu, and that’s because he’s terrified of you and practically shits himself if you so much as look at him sideways. Plus,” he smirks, “your beta posse might be loyal to the death but they’re also _loud_.”

Bohn throws his hands up. For fucks sake then why did he even bother trying to keep it a secret? Sure, King knew, they’d grown up together. And Boss knew because he was shrewder than a damn fox when he wanted to be. But he’d never told anyone else other than them and Duen, he’d just . . .

He’d had Ben over on weekends when he was in his first year of college, and three or four days a week in his second, five by his third. Ben had been living with him full time for a year now, and even well before that half of Bohn’s entire week had been spent with him, plans with friends shuffled aside on a regular basis to make room for him. His friends had met them out and about more times than he could count, had had Ben over for many of their get togethers where Bohn wasn’t exactly subtle. He’d let Ben sit in his lap during meals while he was still small enough to, carried him on his hip when he was even smaller. His friends have seen him blow raspberries on his cheeks, chase him around the park and King’s backyard, laughing and probably so, so obviously and unbearably fond. 

It was, perhaps, the worst kept secret in the entire fucking world now that he lays it all out like that. Bohn groans and drops his head into his hands. No wonder Ben had known. If he’d stopped to think for just a second about it, examine his own behavior and how he’s been growing bolder and bolder over time, less afraid of his own screw ups and more settled into the life he’d rather live, he would have realized. He wonders, his heart clenching, what the exact moment was where Ben figured everything out. 

Was it some specific spoken sentiment? A sudden second lost to time when Bohn had said or done something that showed his hand a bit too clearly? Or had he merely just worn his heart on his sleeve from the beginning. How old had Ben been when he’d known? Nine and scared he was being cast aside? Seven and standing on the end of a shopping cart, calling Bohn his dad as part of a game with a friend? Had he been younger still, five and being dropped off for his first day of school, not yet old enough to read but able to see over the top of the desk when Bohn signed himself off as the primary emergency contact? Perhaps he’d been three, balanced on Bohn’s hip in the dark and stolen hours when everyone else in that cold house was asleep, a kiss pressed into his hair as a nightmare was soothed away. Or maybe, just maybe, he’d simply clung on to the faint traces of a first memory when his tiny, tiny body was laid across Bohn’s chest just above the sheet that kept Bohn from seeing where they’d had to cut him open, the top of his head wet with tears as shaking hands tried to find the best way to hold him.

Bohn doesn’t even realize he’s crying again until he’s being handed a dishtowel, and he stares at it through a long, shuddering breath before he chokes out, “We don’t have any tissues?”

“You definitely need something sturdier than a tissue,” Frong deadpans, and Bohn can’t help but hiccup over a laugh, broken as it ends up sounding. “Also I don’t know where you keep shit in this place. Duen’s organization is unquestionably methodical, but fuck me if I can figure out what the method is.” He thunks the Tupperware container of food down in front of him, and Bohn is rather nonplussed at the fact that he didn’t even bother to put it on a plate. “What kind of juice do you want?”

“Coffee with six shots of espresso,” Bohn says, picking up the spoon set beside his hand on the table.

“Try again.”

“Vodka.”

“One more time.”

“ _Two_ vodkas.”

“You’re getting straight orange juice,” Frong decides for him, and stomps off to go pour it.

The glass is slid across the tabletop towards him a minute later, and Bohn grimaces at the sight of the pulp, barely managing to swallow down the very minimal bite of food he’d been barely stomaching. Of all things, why is it the pulp that’s getting to him? “A different kind, please,” he whispers, almost gagging as he pushes the glass away. “No pulp.”

Frong takes it back and sighs. “Fine. I’ll let you have a pregnancy pulp aversion. But you have to drink the next one. Seriously, you’re clearly dehydrated.”

Bohn does drink the next one, choosing for his own sanity not to ask what it is even though it tastes like there’s vegetables in it that didn’t quite manage to get overpowered by the superiority of fruit. He finishes half of what’s in the little tupperware container, too, albeit very, very slowly. Hell, he’s pretty sure Frong’s right and he manages to digest a fair bit of it. Or at least he does before he’s bent over the toilet and heaving way more of it right back up than he’d like.

“You know,” Frong says from beside him, pointedly not looking in his direction even as he dabs a cool washcloth over the back of Bohn’s neck, “I thought it was called _morning_ sickness.”

“Just because the sun isn’t up yet doesn’t mean it’s not morning,” Bohn points out. It’s also a misconception, because in his experience it’s just whenever-the-fuck sickness, but he doesn’t really have it in him to try to explain that much. He opts instead for resting his forehead on the rim of the seat for a second before Frong makes a disgusted noise and pushes him away from it. And really, Bohn's pretty sure it's not entirely that, either. He's sick with something else, ailed by the deep and twisting anxiety amassing with his already too-long held grief that's been torn anew. 

Frong is quiet for awhile, settling in as just a presence at his side. He’s still holding the washcloth over the back of Bohn’s neck, and when Bohn finally sits away from the toilet, not quite managing to repress a full body shudder, he offers it to him for his face instead. “One time” he starts while Bohn dabs the cool cloth over his forehead, his cheeks, the corners of his mouth, “when I was fifteen I accidentally lit my parents' garage on fire.”

Bohn swivels his head around to stare at him. “Huh?” he croaks out.

“Yep. You know that thing where you can use a bottle of hairspray and a cigarette lighter to create a flamethrower? Some friends and I were doing that. And then one of us, totally not me, got the idea to cover an arm with hairspray and light that on fire. Singed all the hair off my entire arm, and it was put out with an oil rag we found on a shelf, which also obviously caught fire.”

“So it _was_ your idea.”

Frong levels him with a glare, “Shut up. Anyways, that was me at fifteen, and I turned into a way better adult than you. Now, think of that asshole who lit his own arm on fire, and try to imagine him raising a baby. Doesn’t work, right? Now recall something stupid you did at fifteen, and tell me it’s any different.”

“. . . I think I was fifteen the time I chased King around the courtyard outside of the school canteen with a cup full of every condiment mixed together, and when I caught him I pinned him down and made him drink it till he threw up. I’d won a bet, and he wasn’t going to follow through with the agreed upon penalty.” Bohn shrugs. “So I made him.”

Frong grins, “That’s disgusting. But see, that’s exactly what I mean.” He looks away again, leaning back against the cabinets under the sink. “I know you don’t give a shit about my opinion, and you also didn’t ask for it, but overall I think you did okay. I could have never done it.”

Bohn claps a hand to his cheek, unfiltered sarcasm in his tone as he says, “Frong? Giving _me_ a compliment? He must be possessed,” he deadpans.

“It’s not a compliment,” Frong insists readily, “but it’s the closest thing you’ll ever get to one from me. I could have never done what you did,” he repeats. “So even if you were only able to do it halfway, even if that’s all you were able to give for awhile, that’s still more than I could ever do. Take that as you will.”

He looks away again, and Bohn sits down on the cold tile of the bathroom floor, scrubbing the washrag over his face as he remembers another detail from the end of the day; his school shorts still stained with ketchup under a baby balanced across his knees, Bohn’s fingers trembling as his parents’ hired nursemaid had patiently walked him through how to swaddle him tightly, but not too tight, before he had to get back to his homework. He’d seen her doing it the day before, checked to make sure his parents were still out before he’d peeked into the nursery, lured in by Ben crying. When she walked him through it the next day he had just an hour between his classes and cram school, a tiny window of time to spare.

He’d showed up to his special classes with condiments still dotting his clothes, apologizing for his tardiness and his attire all in one breath, but not sorry for the brief moment he’d stolen for a bond he didn’t know if he deserved to want.

~~~***~~~

The mattress dips, and Bohn drifts into semi consciousness as a hand is laid across his forehead. He can feel a ray of sunlight casting through the curtains and over his neck, heated enough to tell him it’s probably after noon, and he groans and turns away from the touch in favor of burying his face in the pillows. His entire body hurts, the ache in his chest now a physical, muscle born pain that sets in with time. 

“I know.” Sympathy is breathed over his ear, and Bohn blinks open his eyes against the haze of exhaustion as he registers it, pairs it with a nuzzle into his cheek. His heart thrums behind his ribs. “I have some congee for you, if you think you can stomach it.”

 _Duen_. Bohn rolls over onto his back, staring up into brown eyes and furrowed eyebrows. “Hey,” he whispers, and Duen smiles and fits a hand over his cheek. 

“Hey. Sit up and I’ll get you something to drink, too.”

The pillows are fluffed behind his back, and Bohn leans into them against the headboard as Duen exits, leaving the door cracked. Faintly, Bohn can hear the sounds of _Detective Conan_ filtering in from the living room, not quite loud enough to drown out muffled whispers of two children deep in conversation. He stops listening immediately, too terrified now of the things Ben and Daonua might be discussing to want to overhear. His hands twist the comforter in his lap as he waits, his heart in his throat.

Duen returns a minute later with a glass of what Bohn is relieved to see is some kind of pink fruit juice, totally free of pulp, and he sits on the side of the bed as Bohn downs half of it before he trades it out for a bowl of congee. He’s quiet while Bohn eats, his hand resting on his thigh as he stares out the window past the curtains he’s drawn aside. It’s only after Bohn has set the bowl back on the nightstand that he speaks. “He found the pregnancy test box in the trash,” he says, and Bohn drops his head into his palms with a sigh. 

“Yeah. I figured,” he mutters. “It’s all just . . . Really horrible timing. All of it. I couldn’t have fucked this all up more if I tried.”

Duen turns to face him fully, pulling his knees up on the bed, the tiniest of smiles tickling at the corners of his mouth. “Now that’s not fair,” he drawls, clearly trying not to grin, “I get half the credit.”

It takes a second for Bohn to register what he’s saying, and he chokes back a snort of a laugh once he does. “Really? I think it’s still too early to be breaking out that kind of dad joke.”

“I have a nine year old,” Duen says without hesitation, “I’ve already earned dad joke privilege.”

Oh.

 _Oh_.

He peeks out between his fingers, unsure if he should be startled by this declaration or not. It’s not like Duen has never said anything similar, far from it. But it seems bolder now, surer. Bohn wishes he could have even half that much confidence to say the same thing. Except, “He hates me,” he whispers, and bites down on the inside of his lip to try and suppress a strangled, broken noise brought out just by repeating those words. 

To his surprise, Duen just smiles at him. A little sad, a lot fond. “He’s upset,” he says. His hand reaches up, carding through Bohn’s hair as he leans in to press their cheeks together and nuzzle into his neck. “He’s just upset,” Duen reiterates, “and confused. Plus, as you said, the timing was terrible, even if it had to be done. He doesn’t hate you.” Bohn doesn’t know if he believes that, but he wants to. He sags into Duen’s embrace, some of the weight of the last day easing off of him as Duen presses a kiss to that spot he likes under his jaw. “Give him time,” Duen urges. “He just needs a little time.”

~~~***~~~

Patience has never been one of Bohn’s strong suits. Hell, it’s not even one of his mediocre talents. But he tries his damndest this time, accepts being a ghost in his own house as he settles into a hopefully temporary normal of Ben refusing to look at or talk to him. 

He still talks to Ben, though. Duen works, even if he starts shifting some of his schedules to nights so he can be there for part of the day, and Bohn isn’t going to stew in his own silence. He’d rather die. Also, fuck it all, he can’t not talk to his own kid. Ben can hate him all he wants, but Bohn loves him so much that just the thought of never speaking to him again makes his chest hurt. He can stand the silence, he’s gone through worse.

Most days Daonua is over, too. At first she doesn’t talk to him either, but that lasts for all of four hours before both children seem to realize _someone_ has to speak or they’ll never get anything they need. Like ice cream for dinner. Because Bohn is in the groveling stage and he’s going to allow that. She’s very formal about it though, for the most part, like some kind of tiny secretary with demands of, “Ben wants takeout for dinner,” or, “Ben’s charger is broken,” and once, hilariously, “We’re going to the park, you can watch us,” as if Bohn would have let them go by themselves otherwise.

The part that gets him, really gets him though, is when he’s sitting on the couch, flipping through old pictures on his phone like the sad sap he is, and Daonua comes creeping in to sit down beside him. It’s late at night, and for a minute Bohn doesn’t really know what to expect. She’s Ben’s best friend, and at that moment the only mouthpiece through which Bohn has heard anything from him at all. So if he’s mildly terrified of a nine year old in that moment, so be it.

Daonua just fiddles with her hands in her lap for awhile though, biting her lip, and after a minute Bohn sets his phone aside so she knows for sure she has his attention. “Are you really going to have a baby?” she asks eventually, small and tentative.

“Yeah,” Bohn responds without hesitation. There’s a question hanging in the air, but he’s too tired to try and decipher it. Instead, he just adds, “Ben’s going to be a big brother, and that’ll make you an auntie.”

Apparently that thought has never crossed her mind, and Daonua cups her hands over her mouth in surprise. “Oh! An auntie!” She seems almost flattered, a little flustered, and Bohn can’t help the smile that spreads over his face. And then, because kids have even less patience than him, she asks, “When will the baby be here?” with unrestrained excitement.

Bohn laughs softly, “It’ll be awhile yet. There’s a lot to do before that. We have to move to a bigger place first.” The thought, unfortunately, twists at something instinctually and viscerally guarded in him though. He’s spent a year building this home, and the thought of having a baby in a new one puts his hackles up. It’s inevitable though, and he knows his unease is entirely unfounded. “But that’s fine,” he goes on, as light as he can, “Ben’s been wanting a bigger bedroom anyways, one with its own closet.”

He sees mild surprise flash across Daonua’s face, and he’s glad he parsed out just enough to figure this out correctly. She’s trying to test out Ben’s uncertainties on him. "Ben wants a bunk bed," she says matter of factly.

Bohn has a feeling this was a joint decision, but he agrees with it wholeheartedly. "A bunk bed sounds great. Anything else?"

She tilts her head and chews on her lip. "His own bathroom? With a tub?"

"That can be arranged, too." Anything can, really. Bohn would do anything to make him happy. "What about a swing set for the backyard? You guys aren't too old for swing sets, right?" Daonua shakes her head furiously, and he grins. "You're right, no one is too old for swing sets." Then, because he can, because he's tired, hurting, he says, "That all sounds good, right? I know I've moved him around a lot, but I want to make sure Ben's happy with the next one." He wants it to be their last, but he doesn't say that outloud. "Any . . . Anywhere I am isn't going to be a home without him, so I want to make sure he's happy."

He doesn't know what Ben and Daonua talk about, doesn't actually care to know. But just in case they have been talking about him, he wants to have said at least that much. If Daonua is going to relay anything back, he hopes it's that.

~~~***~~~

Duen gets Ben ready for the graduation ceremony, and Bohn isn't really surprised when it turns into a fight. He knows Ben is still mad at him, they've barely made eye contact in a week, and Ben hasn't said a word to him in just as long. But it still stings a bit to pull his graduation robes on and have to hear Duen actually chasing Ben around the apartment while his son screams about how much he doesn't want to go at the top of his lungs. 

He's red faced and breathing hard by the time Bohn peeks out of the bedroom, his baby blue button up wrinkled and his bow tie clearly having been wrestled onto him. Duen has him tucked under one arm like an oversized sack of potatoes as if he’d just barely managed to wrangle him at all. 

“He doesn’t have to go,” Bohn says evenly as he strides into the room, his cap tucked under one hand and his phone in the other. He takes a picture of how frazzled they both look, and slides it into his pocket beneath his robes.

Duen gives him a look that brokers no room for argument. “I can’t go if he stays home, and I’m not missing your graduation. So he’s going. Also,” he adds, leveling a stern look at Ben, “you'll really regret it when you’re older if you don’t go.”

Ben’s face says that he highly doubts that, but he says nothing in response. Instead he just crosses his arms over his chest when Duen sets him down and turns his back to both of them. So they’re good for all of four minutes until they get downstairs to the car, and then it’s a scuffle all over again. Ben plants his feet against the doorframe when Duen pulls the seat back for him to get in, and no amount of cajoling or pushing at him can budge him. At one point Bohn tries to step in, only for Duen to get an arm between them as Ben immediately struggles even worse. That’s the last straw apparently, and a whole new kind of growl, lower, calm despite how easily it wells up in Duen’s throat, makes Ben freeze.

“Ben,” Duen warns, his arm still firmly held between them, blocking what Bohn realizes is a wild flail of an elbow in his direction, “If you hit your dad you’ll be grounded for at least a month.”

It probably wouldn’t have hurt him, not in the way Duen is clearly warding against, but Ben still glances over his shoulder at them both with wide eyes, too stunned to resist this time when Duen herds him into the car. “Harsh,” Bohn comments after he closes the door behind him. 

“It’s been a long week,” Duen laments. “And he shouldn’t hit anyone, technically, but especially not you.”

The car ride itself is unquestionably the worst twenty minutes of Bohn’s life, the only sound punctuating the silence being the occasional click of the turn signal. By the time they park Bohn’s about ready to bolt himself, and it’s only with that thought in mind that he has the foresight to snag Ben around the middle before he can do just that the second he’s set free from the back seat. Ben tenses up immediately, but he doesn’t struggle. 

“Hey,” Bohn says quietly, relieved when it doesn’t come out as strained as he feels. “I know you don’t like me much right now, but you’re being really rude to Duen, and that’s not okay. You don’t have to be good for me, but if you could at least behave for him that would be great.” 

Unsurprisingly Ben says nothing to this, but when Bohn lets him go he latches onto Duen’s side, so he counts it as a win anyways. 

The ceremony is just as boring as Bohn expects it to be with the one exception of Boss trying to steal the mic to _fucking propose_ , but Mek puts such an immediate stop to that shit that it might as well not have happened at all. The fact that they’re already married doesn’t seem to have factored into that stunt, and Boss just howls with laughter as he’s forcibly dragged off the stage. 

Bohn barely even notices any of that though, his gaze and attention laser focused out over the audience as he spots his parents arriving fashionably late and taking a seat to Ben’s left. He doesn’t miss how Ben leans away from them as soon as they sit down, nor the way that after a few minutes he ends up forgoing the appearance of pleasantries entirely to scramble into Duen’s lap. Ben hides his face away in the space between Duen’s neck and shoulder, and Bohn can’t help the way his lip curls back from his teeth as he realizes exactly what’s happening.

By the time the pomp and circumstance has wrapped up Bohn’s already way too on edge, so he’s grateful when his friends crowd around him after they exit the stage, and even more pleased when they follow him to the stands. Despite how boisterous and rowdy as they’re being, he knows that if things get dicey in the next few minutes they’ll have his back in a heartbeat. 

It’s probably been at least a year since Bohn’s seen either of his parents face to face. An occasional phone call or text had been all that was necessary after he took Ben back for good, and even that had only been to confirm that he would still be graduating, the one requirement they’d wrung out of him at the cost of so much. 

For that price he’d gotten to keep his son.

For that price, he’d gotten to secure his baby’s future.

He’s graduated now.

Boss has a hand fisted into the back of his shirt by the time they get to where his parents and Duen are, and when Bohn glances at him his gaze is hard. King has bracketed him in on his other side, more subtle, his eyes trained on his phone, but he stays in step with him when Bohn turns to stare at his father directly.

Duen moves to stand among the circle of them, his back slightly to Bohn’s parents as he shifts his grip on Ben, the boy clinging to his neck to the point where he has to be carried. Now that he’s close enough Bohn can smell the fear coming off of him in waves, and his heart clenches. Ben tenses up when he lays a hand on his spine, and doesn’t relax even when Bohn leans over to press a kiss to the back of his head, his arm wrapping around him for a moment as he moves to give Duen a peck too. 

“I’ve graduated,” Bohn says without looking away from them, drinking in the pleased, terribly fond smile Duen gifts him. He says it at him, just so he can steal one more happy second into his heart, but it’s not being said specifically for Duen to hear. “Do you want to frame the degree for your wall, or can I keep it?” He turns to his parents then, fortified by Duen’s eyes on him, Boss’s hand on his back, King’s faux disinterest that’s given away by how closely he’s standing. Somewhere behind him he knows Tee and Mek are waiting too, their arms probably crossed, chins tilted up. 

His father dressed up for this, Bohn notes. Then again, Bohn’s not sure he’s ever seen him in anything other than a suit in his entire life. He stares at him, one eyebrow half raised. The question is loaded, pointed and obvious, and doesn’t need an answer. Bohn isn’t asking about the degree at all, he’s making a threat. “You’re not going to ask for the account info?” his dad inquires instead of responding to it.

Bohn holds out a hand, “No. I shouldn’t have to. We had an agreement.”

He’s relieved when a little, folded piece of paper is set against his palm, and he opens it up as Boss leans into him to peer over his shoulder. From what he can tell everything is in order, and he ignores the strangled, high noise of surprise Boss makes, probably at seeing the total amount in the account. “Thank you,” Bohn says. It’s not fake, for this at least he’s actually grateful. For this at least it was worth it. It’s not about the money, but rather what it represents, the life he can make sure Ben has. 

As if he thinks he’s forgotten, his father twists the metaphorical knife. “It’s not for you. It’s for Ben. I can’t stop you from using it for anything else, but I would hope you’ve at least grown to be responsible enough to spend it in a way that benefits someone other than yourself.” He sticks his chin out, and Bohn doesn’t turn to try and see where his eyes have fallen, already knows. “Your alpha seems to have a good head on his shoulders though, so maybe you’ll manage. You did graduate somehow, clearly someone’s been keeping you in line.” 

Once, Bohn would have sworn Duen didn’t growl in public. He’s not like Bohn, better controlled, his actions more carefully considered. But the one that vibrates through him now, deeper than Bohn’s ever heard it, is done in front of a crowd. “He is not something to be _owned,_ ” Duen says through gritted teeth, his arms tightening around Ben, and Boss shuffles behind Bohn’s back to make room for him at his side instead. “We’re _partners_.”

Bohn’s dad just snorts, unphased, his own lip curling with distaste before his gaze shifts to Ben clinging tightly to Duen’s neck, his wide eyes peeking out under his chin. “You can still come back with us, you know, Ben,” he says, and it’s only Boss and King quickly wrapping their arms around his middle that keeps Bohn from lunging at him. He struggles anyways, a snarl ripping out of his throat before he can stop it. His father barely casts him a glance though, his voice even as he continues, “This isn’t a good environment for a company heir. Clearly.” The disdain is obvious in his entire expression, and Bohn fights against the hold on him, snaps, and nearly manages to get free until Mek and Tee grab him under his arms. 

If Ben goes with him . . .

 _If Ben goes with him_ . . .

“No,” Ben whispers, hiding his face away in Duen’s neck again as soon as he says it.

This time it’s everyone holding onto him that keeps Bohn on his feet. He staggers, his first full breath in almost a minute heaving into his lungs, wash with relief. No. _Ben said no_. If they were anywhere else, in front of anyone else, he would cry. As it is he barely manages to rein it in, struggling on the exhale, another long inhale. The bank account details are smashed in his fist, and he hands them to King before he can destroy them, his arm shaking as he does so.

He’s so dazed by it, his head spinning from the sheer reprieve from that uncertainty, his own sudden rush and then dissipation of adrenaline, that he barely even notices his parents leaving. His mother hadn’t even said a word to him, but he doesn’t care. Bohn takes in another breath, registers his friends letting go of him, Duen nuzzling into his cheek, and holds it in his lungs for an extra beat of his heart.

It is, afterall, his first true breath of fresh, free air. 

~~~***~~~

Bohn would like to say things settle down after that, but they really don’t. If anything they just get quieter. Duen has two night shifts in a row, and they’re pretty much operating on opposite schedules so long as Ben still isn’t speaking to him. It’s a necessity, but it’s draining, emotionally exhausting, and Bohn didn’t realize how much sleeping alone in their bed would wear on him until it was just something he had to accept. 

He puts Ben to bed after Duen leaves, trying not to think about how he must look, whether or not his kid can see the bags under his eyes. Mostly, he just tries not to acknowledge that Ben doesn’t say a word to him, and doesn’t let it break him as he shies back from him when Bohn’s muscle memory gets the better of him. He’s halfway through leaning down to rub his cheek over the top of Ben’s head when Ben rolls over, scoots away from him under the comforter, and Bohn freezes. He doesn’t say anything, looking to the side to stare at the wall for a long second, and then trades the physical gesture for a simple, whispered, “Goodnight.”

An hour later finds him clutching the rim of the toilet, cursing internally that this always seems to happen whenever Duen isn’t home. Not that anyone loves it, but Bohn really, really hates getting sick. He’s almost glad he barely remembers much of this part of it all the first time he was pregnant, because it _fucking sucks_. It’s also a horrible damn waste of Duen’s food. Distantly, he tries to recall if he’s kept any meals down for the last three days, but only manages to linger on that thought for a second before he heaves again, retching around air because there’s nothing left to give up. 

His entire chest is on fire, sore and strained, and Bohn’s hands shake where he grips the bowl. This sucks. _This sucks_. He’d be able to deal with it better if it wasn’t just the latest thing on top of every other grievance of the past few weeks, but it is. As it stands, it’s just a little too much, and Bohn chokes on another gag, sick now with genuine worry that there’s only so much stress his body can take at once. 

“Are you dying?”

At first Bohn barely even registers the voice, so whispered as it is, wavering with unease and drowned out by another terrible clench of his stomach, another dry heave. He nearly bites his tongue against the next one, grimacing as his chest still seizes up, and twists his head to the side to see Ben standing in the doorway. He’s wringing the hem of his shirt up between his hands, his knuckles as white as his face, his eyes more wide and terrified than Bohn has ever seen them. _Shit_. He can’t answer though, not while he’s still trying to choke up nothing, but he tries to shake his head as best as he can.

It apparently doesn’t do anything to soothe Ben though, because Bohn hears his breath hitch, and when he next chances a glance, he has huge tears rolling down his cheeks. “Are you gonna die?” Ben hiccups, edging quickly towards a full on sob. Bohn struggles to keep the next gag in, bites down on his tongue so hard he tastes his own blood. No. No, no, no, _no_. He’s not going to just sit here, helpless while his baby cries. He will _not_. Ben’s hands are at his eyes now, balled fists trying to wipe away the quickly falling tears as he bawls out, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” He sucks in a stuttering breath, “Please don’t die!”

Bohn staggers to his feet, and this time the tightening in his chest is from the horrible, unrestrained wail Ben lets out, the huge, shuddering sobs that are making him shake. He bends down just enough to scoop him into his arms, bundle him up against his body as he carries him back down the hall to his and Duen’s room. Ben clings to him instantly, steady tears dripping down Bohn’s collar as he buries his face in his neck. Holding him like this just makes him aware of how inconsolablely Ben is crying, each shallow breath making him tremble, and Bohn can’t help the whine that escapes him. “Ben,” he whimpers, pressing his cheek into the side of Ben’s head as he sits them down on the edge of the mattress. “Ben, _luuk_ , it’s okay. I’m not dying.”

But Ben just sobs out another apology, curls into him more, his arms wrapped around Bohn’s neck and his hands fisting in the back of his shirt. 

There are many days where Bohn finds himself reeling under the weight of his own responsibility, and he knows that in the long run this will just be one of them among a multitude. He can never be prepared for everything, could never have imagined in either his wildest dreams or his nightmares some of the events of his own life before they happened. He knows, of course, that in some ways this last week must have been hard on Ben too, but it doesn’t sink in how much until he has him crying in his arms, falling into pieces because he’s worked himself up so much he’s jumped to literal life-ending conclusions. The fact that Ben is trying to apologize to _him_ breaks his heart the most. Bohn holds him a little tighter every time he does it, noses into his shoulder, his ear, his neck, desperate to soothe atonements he doesn’t care to have. 

Still though, still, he’s so, _so_ fucking _relieved_. He regrets the way in which it happened, but he’s too tired to do anything more, too weak not to accept his own happiness at having his son back in his arms. “ _Luuk_ ,” he murmurs again, “I promise, I’m not dying. I’m just a little sick. Look, I’m already feeling better.” Actually, he still feels terrible, but that’s not important right now. “Come here,” he says when Ben still doesn’t stop crying, drawing him just a little closer before he rolls them over onto the bed.

He counts the minutes it takes for Ben to calm down, devastated with each one that passes in full, every other second that draws another sob from the boy in his arms. Eventually though he does wear out, settling into the uneven, hiccupping breaths of being emotionally exhausted. Bohn has his chin tucked over the top of his head, and he alternates between merely holding him close and running his wrists over his back. Both have Ben clinging to him tighter, his small hands gripping at his shirt as if he thinks letting go will result in being left alone. Bohn never learned any good lullabies, not having been sung any himself, but he recalls an old pop song he used to hum under his breath when Ben was still in a crib, and draws that up from the depths of his memory instead.

“I had to be in bed for awhile after you were born,” he hears himself say. The arm trapped under Ben’s body pulls him just a fraction closer, and he reaches out with the other one to place his fingers over the edge of the bed beyond his shoulder. “They let me . . . I begged, and they let me get one of those little bassinets, the kind that attaches to the side of the bed frame so I could lay on my side, just like this, and touch you.”

Ben’s hitched breaths have lessened, and Bohn feels him shift to glance over his shoulder to spot on the bed he’s put his hand. He’s more than half Bohn’s size now, but he’d been small enough then that his head had fit perfectly in his palm. Bohn presses his cheek to the crown of his hair now, tasting the mixed scents of both himself and Duen when he parts his lips. “It was only when you were asleep. I couldn’t leave my room for anything other than the bathroom, walking hurt too much. But when you were asleep, the nursemaid brought you back to me. And I would just lay awake and stare at you.” A choked, tiny laugh escapes him, “I cried the first time you grabbed my finger with your whole fist.”

Ben is quiet against him, and Bohn wraps both arms around him again, pulls him closer, holds him tighter, recalling a long ago promise to not let go once he’d been allowed the chance. “I don’t care if you’re mad at me forever,” he whispers hoarsely, honestly. “You have every right to be. And I don’t want you to apologize to me, either. But I want you to know that I loved you from the very beginning. I always wanted you. I just wasn’t ready for you.”

Someday, he hopes Ben will understand that. He’ll be fourteen in a little less than five years, and maybe, just maybe, be old enough to realize that Bohn had been only a child himself. For now though he has this, can tell Ben these truths in simpler terms he can comprehend. “I’ve loved you the whole time, your whole life,” Bohn reiterates fiercely, wetly, hot tears spilling out of his eyes before he can stop them. He inhales one shaky breath, then another. “I know it’s not the same, believe me _I know that_ , but if you’ll still have me, I’m ready now.”

It’s not what he wished for, that fervent, desperate and impossible thing he’d wanted. Still, when Ben whispers, “Okay,” against his collar bone, it feels like starting over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Definition for luuk: Thai term of endearment for a child, specifically your own. It just means child/baby/son/etc. 
> 
> Part two: baby time or wtv idk. Look forward to it.
> 
> Comments fuel my inspiration and make me work faster. Please feed me lmao.


	2. Middle Ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bohn's head still spins when he tries to think about where they’ll go from here, and he distantly finds himself imagining what this scene will look like in a year. A bigger house, a fuller bed, a new life. As if reading his mind, Duen’s fingers flex just a little against his abdomen, and it suddenly hits him like a fucking semi-truck. “Oh my god,” Bohn whispers, breathless, “I’m having a baby.”
> 
> Duen snorts at his shoulder, pulls the both of them in a little closer as he chokes on a laugh. “Did that just sink in?”
> 
> “Maybe,” Bohn admits hoarsely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh part 2 kinda wildly got away from me, so now this fic is 3 parts because I didn't want to have one 25k chapter and then one 45k chapter. Hooray, you get 20k a few days/a week early!

The mattress dips at his back and Bohn blinks awake immediately. He lays still for a long second, senses straining as he subtly tightens his arms around Ben’s sleeping form tucked against his front, and only relaxes as he registers the familiar scent at the same time a hand settles tentatively over his waist. “It’s a little after seven,” Duen murmurs near his ear, “you can sleep for awhile longer.”

With early morning the sun hasn’t quite managed to hit the gap in the curtains just right, and filters in only the weakest light to paint the bedroom a muted grey. Duen’s arm curls over him, and Bohn watches through sleep-hazed eyes as his palm settles over Ben’s back. His other hand slips beneath him where he’s laying on his side, and Bohn hums out a slightly startled note as Duen spreads his fingers over his abdomen, smoothing out the fabric of his shirt. It takes him a minute to fully comprehend it, his brain still fuzzy and addled from the night before, but once he does he can’t help the low purr that vibrates through him. This is . . . This is good. Really, really good.

Duen nuzzles against the nape of his neck, nosing up under his jaw and then working his way back around again until he stills and settles his chin over Bohn’s shoulder. It’s quiet, warm, the weight of him against Bohn’s back a heavy calm that sinks into his very soul. As always, he finds security in the simple things, the tangible ones he can touch, and Bohn lets his eyes fall shut again to bask in the glow of it. 

Ben is still sound asleep in his arms, worn out but otherwise fine, and when Bohn recalls the details of the previous evening he pulls him a fraction closer. He smells like them, and every time Bohn acknowledges it he can’t help the way his heart stutters. The fact that Ben held onto his genetic, baby smell for so long astounds him, and that he adjusted to Duen’s so easily will never not take his breath away. Once, he hadn’t been able to pick up on any of that, his senses dulled and his carefully crafted facades a barrier against it. But now, the three of them folded together like they are in the gently drifting dawn, it’s all around him. A mixed scent that’s unique, just for them, the foundations on which to make everything anew. 

Bohn's head still spins when he tries to think about where they’ll go from here, and he distantly finds himself imagining what this scene will look like in a year. A bigger house, a fuller bed, a new life. As if reading his mind, Duen’s fingers flex just a little against his abdomen, and it suddenly hits him like a fucking semi-truck. “Oh my god,” Bohn whispers, breathless, “I’m having a baby.”

Duen snorts at his shoulder, pulls the both of them in a little closer as he chokes on a laugh. “Did that just sink in?”

“Maybe,” Bohn admits hoarsely. Somewhere in the back of his mind he’d known that, obviously, but it sort of just seemed like a thing that was happening, similar to a birthday party you plan to attend and mark on the calendar without really doing anything else about it. Even when he’d been bent over the toilet and heaving his guts out it had been just a painful moment for a far off purpose, an annoyance at best. Now though, Bohn finds his heart climbing into his throat as it really, finally hits him that it’s not just some fervent daydream. It’s very, very real. 

He must have grown too quiet, or maybe Duen can just smell the sudden flare of nervousness that’s thrumming in him, because after a moment he asks, “Are you okay?”

“Just freaking out a little, tiny bit,” Bohn returns, a tad strained. All things considered, he actually thinks he might deserve a massive freakout rather than a teeny one. The last time he’d gone through this every second of it had been unbearable, so much so that he hardly remembers it at all. Everything else had overshadowed it, the pain, the heartache, the loneliness, and when Bohn even tries to draw it to the forefront of his mind it sends a shuddering breath through him. 

Duen rubs his cheek over his neck, once, twice, three times, until Bohn sucks in a steadier inhale. “You told me once,” he murmurs, warm and solid and there around him, “that you remember the first time you felt Ben move.”

Oh. 

It’s one of the few good memories he clings to, that surprising, overwhelming moment a held onto bright spot in the whirlwind and terror of everything else. It comes back to him in a rush, welling up in his chest all over again as Ben mumbles something in his sleep and shifts in his arms. Time, as always, is everflowing, a current to swim against. Bohn reaches out for it, grasping onto that glimmer a decade behind him and twists it into the present, combines it with the press of Duen’s palm over his stomach where they’re tangled together now. He has the opportunity to make better memories, try again. Every step forward is one more taken away from that ache in his heart. Bohn turns a bit, just enough to tilt his head to the side and kiss Duen’s cheek without dislodging Ben. “I’m glad you’re here,” he murmurs.

The contrast between the last time and this one is clear. It’s steeped in the air of this apartment, moulded into their every action and carved into their very bones. They’ve built a home around it, and as much as it rankles up his instinctive unease, Bohn knows they’ll be able to do it all over again. Together. 

He’s still afraid, but every unknown road ahead can’t be faced without some apprehension. And this time it’s eclipsed by so much more. Duen is a grounding presence at his side, the gravity that keeps him from spinning too fast, too far, and in his arms Ben is an echo of all he was. There are new memories to forge, better days ahead, a chance he had once believed might be more than he was worth. “I can’t believe it,” he says, and this time he does so because it’s real, simultaneously frightening and exhilarating in a way that leaves him wanting. “I can’t believe we’re having a baby.”

Duen’s mouth curves up where it’s pressed to his neck, and Bohn can’t help but match it as he feels the smile bloom over his skin. “Yeah,” Duen whispers, and Bohn hums, content as his boyfriend traces lazy shapes across his abdomen. “Yeah, we are.”

~~~***~~~

“That’s _cold_!” Bohn yelps, sucking his stomach in as the gel is smeared over his skin. 

Duen narrows his eyes and glares down at him, his gloved hand hovering over his body as he raises an eyebrow. “Do you want P’Thara to do it instead?” he asks.

Absolutely fucking not. “No,” Bohn grimaces, pointedly not looking towards where Thara is sitting in front of the monitor with Ben in his lap. He knows he’s being a finicky brat right now, especially since Thara has been gracious enough to let Duen do the honors, an actual miracle considering Duen is still less than a year into his hands-on training. Still though, “It feels weird,” he mutters, refusing to meet Duen’s eyes. 

It feels weird, and it reminds him of a little too much. The whole building does, actually. There’s a reason he always waits outside when he occasionally picks Duen up. It’s not a specific thing, but rather a mixture; the too white walls, the overpowering sanitary smell, the echo of shoes on long tiled halls, the scratchy feeling of overly starched sheets and exam table paper. Even now, with Duen right next to him, it makes his breath hitch a little, his hands clenching at his sides. The full weight of his own instincts hasn’t really kicked in yet like Duen’s has, won’t still for another month or more, but in that moment he feels the first faint pinpricks of them in the back of his mind, sparking up on the ashes of an old agony. He does not want to be here, not even for the parts where it’s necessary.

Ben had been born in a place just like this, and even the slightest suggestion that his next baby could be brought into the world the same way makes his heart stutter behind his ribs. He doesn’t want to be here. _He can’t be here_. He wants to be at home. _He needs to be at home_. 

“Bohn,” Duen whispers, and Bohn jolts as his hand fits over his jaw, skin to skin, the glove having been tossed aside while he was lost in his own wild thoughts. Bohn snaps his attention to him and him alone, his focus narrowing until he registers Duen’s other hand on his chest, fingers splayed out over the panicked drum of his heart as it starts to slow back down. He smiles when Bohn meets his gaze, “I’ll take you home right after this,” he swears softly. “Okay?” He’s nodding before he even fully registers the question, and Duen moves to fold his hand over where Bohn is still fisting his own at his side. His other is held aloft, and Thara passes him the transducer without comment. “Ready?”

No. “I guess,” Bohn sighs, nervous energy roiling inside him when Duen shifts his gaze to the screen as he brings the probe down over his abdomen and starts rolling it painstakingly slowly across his skin. 

“It’s going to be a little hard to spot this early,” Thara instructs from his chair. “Go lower.”

Bohn closes his eyes as Duen shifts to do just that and the transducer presses against the scar and traces the length of it. His breath must catch audibly, because Duen moves the hand holding his to more properly tangle their fingers together, his eyes never leaving the screen. 

It’s quiet, the loudest sound in the room the pulse of Bohn’s own heartbeat where the machine is picking it up. “Try to the left,” Thara suggests after a minute, and Bohn turns his attention back to the ceiling until he hears an absolutely glorious little gasp fall from Duen’s mouth.

“ _Oh_.”

He turns his head and Bohn’s breath catches as Thara tilts the monitor towards him so he can see, too. It looks . . . Well, it mostly looks like a load of nothing at this point, but it’s clear what Duen has spotted, and Bohn’s heart skips rabbit-rapid in his chest. “ _Oh_ ,” he echoes, equally taken aback. Well, if it hadn’t hit him before that he was pregnant, it certainly has now. 

“That?” Ben asks, jabbing his finger into the screen right where the tiny, little thing is curled against the side. “That’s a _baby_?” He’s so incredulous Bohn can’t help but laugh, making the image flutter on the monitor as he shakes with the effort of trying not to totally lose his shit. Duen huffs and lays a hand on his chest so he stills, grumbling until he manages to find the spot he’d found before and centering it a little better. 

“There we go,” he declares once it’s on the screen again, and now Ben is nearly nose to nose with it, frowning deeply.

“Looks like a bug,” Ben sniffs, and Bohn bites down on his lip to keep from bursting out laughing again. “I don’t want a bug for a sister.”

Oh, a sister now is it? Bohn grins even as Duen says, “Ben, we won’t know if it’s a boy or a girl till it’s born.” 

Ben just gives him a disbelieving stare over his shoulder, “Dao wants a girl, so I do too.”

“I’ll put a good word in,” Bohn says, as if that’s at all how it works, and Duen sighs and rolls his eyes. 

“Would you like some printed copies?” Thara asks, already pressing a button to freeze the image. Bohn doesn’t really see the point, at six weeks it’s literally still a mostly incomprehensible blob, but both Duen and Ben are nodding eagerly. 

Duen gets two glossy ones, and Ben leaves the hospital with an entire stack of them on plain printer paper. “What are you even going to do with those?” Bohn asks as they load into the car, the tension finally easing fully from his body now that he no longer has the smell of sanitizer in his nose. 

Ben blink down at them for a long moment before he says, way too mysteriously, “Decorations.”

“That’s not ominous at all,” Duen mutters as he takes the driver’s seat. He passes Bohn his own photopaper prints as he buckles his seatbelt and Bohn spends the rest of the trip home trying not to stare at them too obviously, flushing every time Duen catches him doing it anyways and casts him a grin so wide that it curves his eyes.

When they get home Frong is hovering outside of the door, and Bohn whips the pictures around to flash them proudly in his face only to receive a vehement, “ _Gross,_ ” for his troubles.

“Why are you here, anyways?” Bohn huffs, taking them back and tucking the images protectively to his chest, as if Frong’s disdain might set them on fire. 

Frong folds his arms together, “I’m being a good samaritan. Thought I could take Ben to that indoor playground in the mall for a couple of hours.” He says it slowly, obviously, leveling Bohn with a look that still takes Bohn a whole minute to decipher. 

“Oh! Yes, that would be great, actually. I’ll get you some money, hold on.” He passes Duen the pictures and darts into the apartment, emerging a minute later with one of the clips stuffed with bills he has squirreled away. “For ice cream,” he says as he counts them out, “for a movie, aaannndddd for one, _one,”_ he repeats pointedly, “videogame for Ben’s Switch.”

Ben throws his hands in the air, nearly scattering his own printouts until Duen scrambles to rescue them. “Yes!”

“E ratings only,” Bohn warns Frong. “You have to vett it or I’ll be pissed. It can be over his age, but it has to be rated E. Don’t let him smooth talk you.”

“I don’t do that,” Ben denies, and Bohn raises an eyebrow. 

Frong just rolls his eyes and takes the money, Ben eagerly skipping off after him as he heads back towards the elevator without another word. 

“You told Thara to text him, didn’t you,” Bohn says, following as Duen pushes the door open and locks it behind them before striding over the threshold to set the ultrasound prints down on the kitchen table. Bohn tilts his body against the table beside him as he does it, his hands splayed out on the surface as he waits for an answer.

Duen pauses, his attention momentarily caught on the images before he glances over at where Bohn is leaning on the edge of the table. “I might have,” he admits, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “We’ve been pretty busy with everything, and I thought we could use the time to-” Bohn scoots a little closer, already eager, “-clean.”

What the fuck. 

“We also have to plan out the announcement,” Duen continues, ticking off his fingers, “start looking for houses, oh and we can’t forget about a new car, your sports car isn’t going to work with a car seat, and-”

Bohn is going to tear his fucking hair out. “Hey,” he interrupts, well aware that Duen is definitely messing with him, but unwilling to let it continue. For fuck’s sake, it’s been two weeks and then some. “Which one do you think was the one that took?” he asks, smirking when Duen blinks at him, taken aback and immediately befuddled.

His eyes are wary as he turns towards Bohn fully, probably just from the teasing note lilting into his tone. “What do you mean?”

Bohn’s smirk turns toothy, cheshire and feral while he leans over the table, brushing the prints aside as he whispers again, “Which one do you think was the one that took? Was it when you were pressing me down onto the mattress with a hand between my shoulder blades? Or was it when I scratched up your back because you bent me in half and used me?” When Duen’s breath hitches it’s audible, hot as Bohn leans in further still until their noses brush and he can feel the exhale against his lips. “Maybe,” he continues, “it was right at the beginning, when you couldn’t help but fuck me three times in a row, barely gave me room to breathe in between, and filled me so full it was almost more than your knot could hold in.”

Duen surges up into him, closes the distance left with a growl, his hands fisting into the collar of Bohn’s shirt. He nips at his bottom lip hard enough to bruise and Bohn gasps into his mouth as he pulls away just enough to mutter, “Shut up.”

Nah. Why would he ever do such a thing when the end result is so good? He winds his arms around Duen’s neck, pulls him closer and presses a kiss to his jaw, his cheek, his lips, each one lingeringly heated and half starved. “My pretty, perfect boy,” he purrs, always amazed, breathless, wanting, and Duen’s chest rumbles against his own with another barely repressed growl. “Have you really thought about it? What you’ve done to me?”

“ _Bohn_ ,” Duen says lowly, almost a warning, but when Bohn leans back to meet his eyes he only finds exasperated fondness staring back at him through darkened pupils. 

Duen’s nudging him back, his hands finding Bohn’s hips as Bohn lets himself be guided, taking slow steps towards the hall. His grip around his boyfriend’s neck doesn’t falter, and even when he almost trips over himself Bohn doesn’t leave any space between them, merely laughs under his breath while they pause. Duen’s hand shifts to his back and keeps him on his feet, instinctual, instant, vigilant. “Baby,” Bohn murmurs once his shoulders are up against the bedroom door, the handle being fumbled open. “Baby, think about it. You were _so good_.” He hums as Duen presses insistent fingers to the back of his thighs, and he jumps obligingly, wrapping his legs around his middle for those last few steps so Duen can tip him over gently across the mattress. 

Bohn lets go as he does so, watching with half lidded eyes when Duen tugs his shirt over his head and then leans over, Bohn’s legs still tight around his waist as he gets to work on his too. His fingers skim up under the hem, and Bohn’s breath hitches as he finds his new favorite spot, fanning them across his abdomen for a heartbeat before he moves higher, pushing it up and off. Bohn falls back against the sheets as soon as he’s able again, threading a hand into Duen’s hair while he begins trailing reverent kisses over his torso. He stops every few seconds, trades a kiss for a rub of his cheek, a deep whuff of an inhale against his skin. With the turmoil since Bohn had taken the pregnancy test they haven’t had much time alone at all. Even their waking hours had been separate out of necessity, and Bohn realizes with a start that Duen has barely been able to scent him in well over a week, let alone do what he’s been doing since the heat. 

Fuck.

He pushes up onto his elbows, scooting back further onto the mattress until Duen follows and climbs up over him. “Come here,” Bohn urges, tugging him down to him by the back of his neck and pressing their cheeks together with fresh, fervent need. 

As always, this part is quiet, attentive, slow. Duen starts at the top and works his way down. Bohn can feel how hard he is against his thigh, but that’s taken a back seat for the moment, overshadowed by the more important need to reaffirm their belonging. He nibbles at the underside of Bohn’s jaw, a light warning before he presses his teeth in harder. Bohn gasps, slightly startled by the almost uncharacteristic pressure until Duen pulls away again and he takes in just how thin his irises are. “I’m going to mark you,” he says evenly, and Bohn inhales in a surprised breath before he nods. Duen’s never been as big on the marking as he knows some alphas can get, leaving one or two now and then and usually only when he’s noticed that the ones made during their shared cycles have totally faded. This feels distinctly different, newly possessive, and when Duen sucks a bruise into the hollow of his throat before turning his head to bite heavily into his shoulder, Bohn can’t help the way his voice pitches out of him in a high whine. 

It’s harsh, definitely harsh enough that he’ll be feeling it for at least a few days afterwards, and Bohn can’t help but wonder what he must smell like to draw that out of Duen. Too much like just himself, he suspects, and probably noticeably enceinte on top of that. He should smell more like Duen, always but especially now. More than that, he _wants to_ , and the very thought that he might not, that his skin isn’t a constant melody of the both of them so that everyone can tell, pisses him off. So he’s fine if it’s harsh, if it hurts just a little. If anything, that only calms him more. 

It’s easy to relex, even when the dig of Duen’s teeth at his skin makes his breath catch in his chest to draw softer and softer whimpers out of him. Each time it’s done it’s laved over with a tongue in the next second, the sting soothed away before it can truly set in. Duen is careful with him, always, spends achingly long moments merely nuzzling at him, pressing his cheek to his wrists, his sternum, his waist. He chases the rise and fall of Bohn’s body as he breathes with his fingers, puts the perfect amount of pressure where he knows it’ll make Bohn the most pliant, where it will work satiated little hums from his lungs. His mouth is hot as he pauses just below Bohn's navel, touch skimming lower as he drags his pants off before he moves further south. There are imprints of teeth left over Bohn’s inner thighs, his calves, altering in depth and intensity, peppered between with darker marks brought blooming to the surface of his skin.

He’s panting by the time Duen seems satisfied with what he’s done, loose limbed and overwhelmed when he climbs back over him. Bohn can taste him everywhere now, can feel each claimed centimeter of his own body almost as if he’s only just begun to inhabit it. Duen’s eyes are still impossibly dark when he leans into his line of sight again, but they’re softer somehow, and Bohn stares up at him for a long moment before he reaches to pull him in and bury his face against his shoulder. 

“Too much?” Duen asks, low, concerned, and Bohn shakes his head immediately. “Can I roll you over? I want to . . .” He pauses and seems to steady himself, “I want to do the other side of you, too.”

Bohn lets go and allows him, grabbing one of the pillows by the headboard to rest on. He tilts his head to the side to watch over his shoulder. This time, Duen starts low. With his legs already thoroughly taken care of he presses a kiss to the small of his back first, fingers kneading into the flesh of his ass until Bohn’s breath leaves him in a groan and he squeezes his eyes shut. Where before it had been almost non sexual it’s clearly edging away from that now. At some point, Duen finally kicks his own pants off, and every kiss, every bite left over his skin brings his body up over Bohn’s higher, closer, until he’s sinking his teeth into the nape of Bohn's neck and grinding down against him. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Bohn gasps, trying to get his knees under him, but Duen holds him down, keeps him still. Every time either of them breathes Bohn can feel him, nearly dizzy with desire whenever he registers the hard line of Duen’s cock against his ass. “I swear to god,” Bohn grits out, the haze of being scented now replaced with heated, aching need, “if you knot outside of me I’m going to be so furious you won’t even know what to do with me.”

Duen exhales a laugh over the back of his neck, keeping his hips pinned down to the mattress. “Oh? I don’t see the point though,” he teases, “when I’ve already bred you.”

What. The _fuck_. Is this revenge? Petty, evil retribution for Bohn’s earlier taunting? He whines into the pillow, flushed now with more than just his own arousal. “That’s _mean_ ,” he pants, and this time when Duen grinds down it’s too close for him to bear, the head of him brushing tantalizingly against him. It's not enough. “Duen, come on. _Please_. Please, please, I-” He chokes on a sound, startled, needy, as Duen reaches down to line them up, close, so close, but not yet inside him. Bohn lets go of the pillow to scrabble at the sheets, desperate now as he tries to press back into him and take it for himself. “ _Fuck,_ ” he whimpers when he gains no traction, Duen’s other hand planted firmly between his shoulder blades, “ _Fuck,_ **_please_** -”

“Please what?” Duen asks, and his voice alone is so dark and saturated with breathless yearning it makes Bohn keen.

“Please,” Bohn pants beneath him, “baby, _please_. I need you. I need you inside me, I-”

The air punches out of him all at once, gasping around Duen’s name as he finally eases into him. Even though it’s slow, almost torturously so, it still has Bohn trembling, squeezing around him and stringing out garbled swears until he’s fully seated. His hands clench uselessly in the sheets beside his head, and it’s only Duen still holding him down that keeps him from bowing up off the bed. He groans as soon as Duen stills, panting out shuddering breaths until Duen’s arms shift and wrap around him, one across his chest and the other loose over his shoulders. “Hips up,” he murmurs against Bohn’s neck, and Bohn swallows and nods, eager to obey as Duen whispers, “Don’t want to put too much weight on you. There you go, phi. There you go. Can you let me know if you need me to touch you?” he asks. “I want to make this good for you. If you want to come just tell me. I’ll take care of you.”

Oh. Oh, that’s nice, Bohn thinks dizzily. “Now,” he says without even a hint of hesitation. He’s already on edge, wound up from so many long minutes of being touched and tasted and re-marked. “I want . . .”

But Duen’s already taking the arm from his shoulders and tracing his hand lower. Bohn can feel him twitch inside him, and he presses his face into the pillow with a moan, astounded as he always is by how much Duen clearly enjoys taking him apart. Sometimes, Bohn wonders if he’s a little too easy, or if it’s just Duen. It never seems to take as much once Duen gets his hands on him as when he tries to do it himself. Heat coils tightly in his abdomen, tighter, tighter, Duen’s fingers pressing and circling until it all unravels in a rush, washing through him to tense his muscles and then release again. His head spins in the wake of it, just a little, and it’s only when he’s laying there gasping through the aftershocks that he realizes Duen hasn’t even moved yet.

“You gonna fuck me?” Bohn asks between breaths, tilting his head to the side so he can observe Duen’s dark, dark eyes over his shoulder. The simple act of Duen nodding, of him pressing a kiss to the line of throat, really shouldn’t make him quiver the way it does, leave him panting all over again. Except Bohn’s always been like this for him, hasn’t he, starved and wanting, satisfied only when they both are. 

When Duen does move it’s clearly calculated, measured, each thrust just the right amount of intensity without being too hard, too rough. The only give to his control is how Bohn can feel his breath hitching over the back of his neck, his one tell. In truth Bohn knows Duen could be a little bit harsher, that he doesn’t have to hold him quite so gently, but he says nothing and keeps that to himself, because he likes this too much to give it up just yet. He stretches out when Duen presses his upper body back down into the mattress fully once more, finding purchase among the sheets again, satiated for the moment and content just to relish in everything else. He likes this, likes how it makes him feel. Duen moves in him with both purpose and pleasure, held back from chasing the latter in its entirety by how intent he is on being careful. 

Bohn sighs, gratified, overcome, adored, breathless as heat starts to flicker in him anew. “So good to me,” he mumbles, shoving the pillow aside to give himself room to breathe, room to bask in each heated spark that works its way through him in fresh ripples as Duen fucks him. “ _God_ , Duen,” he purrs, fingers flexing in the sheets with every thrust, every slow roll and grind. He must look a wreck already, flushed and trembling, his inhales shallowing as he nears the brink again. “ _Baby_ . . .”

Most of the time, Bohn doesn’t know how to want something until it’s well within his grasp, until he’s already been given it. This is just one of those things, one more instance where he finds himself being spoiled with what he didn’t know he could have, pushed to the edge of ecstasy just by how gratified he feels. This time he comes without being touched, mewling as it ripples through him until Duen has to slip an arm under his hips to keep him on his knees. It’s so much, but never too much, his heart thundering in his ears while Duen continues to fuck him through every shudder and squeeze of his body.

“Still want me to knot you?” Duen asks, and it’s only by how strained it comes out that Bohn can tell he’s close. He can feel it catching against him, but Duen’s clearly holding back, not quite pushing it all the way in. Rather than answer, Bohn just shifts a little, parts his legs further and cants back into him until Duen doubles over, gasping across his spine as it pops inside. “ _Bohn_!” he says hoarsely, and Bohn hums, satisfied when he hears him groan as he jerks and spills inside him. “Fuck. _Fuck_!”

Bohn loves every tremble of Duen's body around his, every hot breath heaved out across his spine when his boyfriend's head thunks down between his shoulder blades. “Good?” Bohn asks, because even when he’s satiated, pampered, he wants to make sure it’s good for Duen too. It's not quite as intense as his rut orgasms, and after a second Duen manages a nod. Bohn hums, pleased, and reaches behind him to get a grip on the back of Duen's neck. "Slowly now. Come on, babe, you can lay on me. It's not too much."

Again, Duen nods, and Bohn sags in relief against the arm holding his hips up as he's let down slowly. "You're sure it's okay?" Duen whispers after a heartbeat, one hand still braced on the mattress even as Bohn sighs and settles comfortably into the sheets on his stomach. 

"Yeah," Bohn assures, huffing out a breathy, gratified little noise when Duen finally presses his full weight down across him. "There you go. Perfect," he murmurs. 

Duen nuzzles into the back of his neck, running his cheek over the soft space where it dips into the curve of his right shoulder. Kisses are danced over the still fresh indents of teeth, the ones that will linger for an hour or so yet, a few that Bohn can tell might even bloom into faint pink bruises for longer. He doesn't mind. Each one is bought with fresh praise, whispered affections, and when Duen noses up at the underside of his jaw, returning his quiet, content "love you," with one equally as valuable, Bohn can't help the intoxicated little purr that escapes him. 

A laugh bubbles on Duen's breath over his cheek. "Bohn," he grins, and Bohn can feel the curve of that pretty smile that had captured his attention and held it from day one against his skin. "God, I don't think I've ever seen you this happy." He's tracing lazy shapes over Bohn's ribs as he says it, down his sides and up again until he places his fingers across the underside of his chin to draw him in for a proper kiss. 

Bohn rolls the words over in his mind for a moment, mixes it in with the blissed out thrill still sinking into his bones. Maybe to someone else it might sound like a backhanded compliment, but he knows that from Duen it's genuine approval. And he's not wrong, either. There's so much old weight off his shoulders now, time spun wounds brushed over with the hesitant first steps of fresh starts and newer aspirations. He is happy. Bohn curls his fingers in the sheets, humming around another pleased noise. "I like this," he confesses softly. And while he could easily list all the parts he enjoys, every way his life has slowly been made better over days and months and years, he knows he doesn't have to. As always, perhaps as ever, Duen reads him through the ripple of his body when he sighs, content, pliant, absolutely and unabashedly spoiled. 

"And I like you like this," Duen returns with a snicker, another kiss laid to the corner of his jaw. 

~~~***~~~

"Is this an art gallery?" Boss asks, peering at one of Ben's "decorations" that have adorned almost every corner of the apartment. Bohn looks up from where he's attempting to be helpful by pouring chips into a bowl and tries his hardest not to laugh. Ben is walking some of their guests through his masterpieces, showing each one off with a flourish worthy of a gameshow host. Across the room, Bohn can see that Duen is watching out of the corners of his eyes too, the twist of his mouth giving away how much he's also struggling not to laugh.

Ben gestures to the next colored in artistic rendering of the ultrasound, this one just as hideous and incomprehensible as the last one. "Yes," he says pompously in answer to Boss' question. 

Boss, to his credit, gives the appropriate, faux amazed reaction to this despite how totally bemused his expression remains. "Ooooh! Very nice! And you made all these um . . ." He glances around the room, stalls, and then settles on, " _these_ yourself?"

"I made them," Ben confirms seriously as Bohn passes them to set the chip bowl down on the coffee table. 

Fuck, he can't help it, he has to. "Actually," Bohn says, sidestepping over to where Boss, Mek, and Tingting are staring at the "art." It's the one Ben has drawn a cityscape around, Bohn notes, and the little blob of the fetus has been adorned with alien-like features and a long dinosaur tail. "Your phorh and I made that," he says cheekily, pointing at the nonsensical mess Ben has made out of the first picture of his sibling. "You just colored it." He spins on his heel and walks away as soon as he says it, smirking as dead silence lingers behind him for a long minute.

When he glances over his shoulder a moment later Boss is staring after him with wide eyes, his brows furrowed for a heartbeat before he suddenly leaps into the air and starts smacking Mek and Tingting's arms on either side of him. "Oh! Oooooooohhhhhh! Oh my god! _Oh my god!_ ” He’s practically vibrating out of his skin, bouncing on his toes. “Holy shit! _Really_?! Are you really!?”

“Is he really what?” Tingting demands, her hands on her hips in an instant and her eyes narrowed at Bohn suspiciously. 

Bohn gives all three of them finger guns and bolts, grabbing Ben from where he’s proudly displaying another artistic rendering of the ultrasound to a befuddled Tee, Phu, and Tang on the other side of the room. He knows Duen will follow without being asked, and when he skitters into the bedroom he’s not too surprised to actually find him already there, tugging on the t-shirt he chose with a huff. 

He looks up when Bohn shoves Ben ahead of him and slams the door behind him. “I heard P’Boss yelling,” he accuses. “But I suppose I can’t say anything because I abandoned poor P’Thara to the inquisition my mother was trying to wring me through. We better hurry though, that man has no poker face at all.”

“I’m aware,” Bohn snorts. “Have you seen the way he looks at Frong? Yuck.”

“I look at you like that,” Duen snickers.

“Yes, but you have tact. And also I love you and you’re cute.”

They’d debated on how to do this for a little over a week, torn between something simple like a banner or a gesture a bit more grand. In the end, Ben had decided for them, enamored with a shirt he’d found in the department store when Bohn had taken him to look at paint pallets for his new room. It's a good middle ground, the perfect amount of bold but cheesy, and more than anything Bohn is just pleased Ben wants to be involved. He straightens the hem of the boy's shirt as Ben pulls it down over his head, fondness welling in his chest as he reads over the text printed on it. “I love you,” he reminds softly when Ben bats his hands away, embarrassed, his cheeks flushed. 

“Gross,” Ben whispers, but he doesn’t shy back when Bohn pulls him into a hug and nuzzles his cheek over the top of his head. 

“Don’t forget this is your party, too,” he says as he lets him go. The shirt does more than announce their new arrival, it’s a good reminder of Ben’s place in everything, and he knows his friends will remember that. 

Duen hands Bohn his shirt, wrinkling his nose a little as it's unfolded with a proud flourish in front of him. “I can’t believe I’m letting you wear that,” he grouses. “My _mom_ is here.”

Bohn raises an eyebrow and holds it over his chest, grinning. “And? It’s not a lie, is it?” he boasts.

“No,” Duen admits. “But it’s crass.”

“And so am I,” Bohn smirks. “Now shoo, I want to make a grand entrance.”

He hides just around the corner of the hallway while Duen hustles Ben back out into the crowd and lets him loose to be noticed. As it is, Duen’s shirt gets comments first as he mills among their friends, studiously avoiding his mom, Bohn notes. 

“Were you wearing that earlier?” Phu asks as he passes, snagging him by the arm to stare for a second with Tang at his side. “I know you like bad novelty tees, but ' _Doctor Dad_?'”

Ben, as unsubtle as ever, has taken up position next to the loudest of the lot, the one sure to make the biggest fuss, his hands on his hips as he waits for Tingting to notice him. “Nice dinosaurs, squirt,” Tingting coos first, and then pauses as she actually absorbs the text printed above the cute image of what’s actually two different sized Godzillas on Ben’s chest. “' _Big_ _Brother_?'”

“Big _what_!?” Tee gasps from beside her, choking on the chips he was shoveling into his mouth. 

“Big brother,” Ben huffs immediately, like Tee is a moron. Bohn stifles a laugh into the back of his hand and walks over to where King and Frong are standing by the balcony doors.

Frong gives him a hard side eye, and then flicks his gaze down to his shirt. “What is wrong with you?” he deadpans while King bites his lip to keep from bursting out laughing. “You couldn’t just make a Facebook post like a normal person, could you.”

“It’s like you don’t even know me,” Bohn smiles.

“I wish I didn’t every single day.”

Bohn has at least a hundred preloaded retorts to that, but he settles for just kissing the palm of his own hand and smashing it into the side of Frong’s face to make him gag. His noise of disgust is loud enough to finally catch the attention of everyone milling around Ben. Tingting looks up first, and Bohn watches with delight as her eyes widen when she takes in his t-shirt. On the other side of the room Ram puts his hands knowingly over his ears before her jaw drops and she screams, “' _Knocked Up_!?'”

Boss, clearly unable to contain himself any longer despite Mek physically trying to put a hand over his mouth, yells, “He’s got a Bohn in the oven!”

Apparently that’s the last straw for the gathering to descend into utter chaos, the guests torn between trying to decipher what the actual hell that means while Boss attempts to explain his play on the English phrase and roaring with just straight up hoots and hollers in response to Bohn’s shirt. 

“You’re _pregnant_!? How did I miss this level of gossip!?” Tee laments, dragging his hands over his eyes. “Better yet, how did _Tingting_ miss it?”

“I’m offended,” Tingting agrees. “I had no idea Duen could keep that kind of secret. I see him almost every day at both work and school, he never said a thing.” She sighs, “My boy has grown up, he can lie now,” and then quickly follows it with a frown and an, “Ew. I’m old.”

“You’re twenty-one,” Tee soothes. "Also I'm older than you, so shut up."

"I'm the same age as you minus three minutes and I would also like you to shut up," Tang laments. "I don't even want to think about any of this. My friend is having a baby? I'm in university still, what the hell even do I get you guys for a gift?"

Bohn pats him on the shoulder and says with all the sincerity he can muster without laughing, "Your love and support," and is alarmed when Tang looks like he's actually going to fucking cry.

“As another broke university student, you will also receive only my love and support,” Tingting says over the sound of Tang sniffling. “Mostly because we’re probably close enough at this point that that’s not a joke, and I will feel compelled to help out where I can.”

To Bohn’s right, Frong stiffens up in alarm, slack jawed as he croaks out a horrified, “ _What_? Is that . . . Is that a _thing_? Thara!” he calls across the room, and Thara perks up immediately from where he’s patting Duen’s teary-eyed mother on the back. “Thara, is that a thing?!”

Apparently now dubbed the official expert, Thara levels them all with an exasperated look before he heads their way. “If you’re talking about omega instincts, yeah,” he says, and Frong muffles an honest to god screech by pursing his lips together, his eyes wide. “It’s just one of those holdovers from pre-civilization pack dynamics that never died out. Having babies at home isn’t tradition, it’s instinct. And having help is necessary. So yeah, if you’re close enough you’ll probably want to hang around.”

Frong puts his head in his hands. “I’m revoking every semi-nice thing I’ve ever said about you right this instant, I swear to god,” he mutters Bohn isn’t even the least bit offended, and he bites his tongue to keep from just laughing in his face. “I hate you.”

“You love us,” Tingting scoffs. “We’ll have so much fun, you’ll see.”

“I hate you in particular just for saying that,” Frong intones without a hint of remorse. “The only thing that could make this even more of a nightmare is if Bohn decides to make me the midomega just to torture me.”

Bohn raises an eyebrow like he’s actually considering it, and watches Frong peek out at him between his fingers and turn positively green. “Nah,” he says after a beat, snickering when every tense muscle in Frong’s body uncoils so quickly it makes him stagger into Thara’s side. 

Tingting bats her eyes at him, pointing a finger at herself. “Me, right?”

“How many babies have you delivered?” Bohn asks flatly, already knowing the answer.

She frowns, “Well there’s a first time for everything.”

Bohn rolls his eyes and strides past her to the kitchenette, rifling around in the back of one of the cabinets for a moment. He’s keenly aware of everyone’s gazes on him as he pulls the mug out of the back of the shelf and dusts it off. It’s never been used, a whim of a purchase done on a hungover morning four years ago. Still, it’s a pact he’s always meant to make good on. “I’m not into the whole midomega concept,” he admits as he places it on the counter facing his audience so they can read the text printed across the curve of the ceramic. Duen, having escaped the crowd as well, joins him then and retrieves the bottle of champagne from the fridge. Bohn makes grabby hands for it, wanting to shake it, but Duen holds it out of the way as he pops the cork off. Sulking a bit at the lacklusterness of it all, Bohn takes it regardless to pour it into the mug. “Anyways,” he says, holding it out over the countertop, “ I’m more of a midbeta guy. Right, Boss?”

Boss whoops, throwing his hands in the air before he bounces over. He takes the mug and spins around to show it off to everyone else as if they all haven’t been staring at it for the last few minutes. “It’s an honor,” he says, far too solemnly for the occasion, “to be officially named your ‘Badass Baby Catching Birth Ninja.’”

“Why do you even have a mug that says that?” King asks, his eyebrows furrowed. 

“Reasons,” Bohn and Boss say simultaneously. 

“Boss has three older siblings,” Mek says, for once unable to stop himself from bragging, “All omegas or omega-leaning betas like him. He’s helped with five deliveries.”

Boss flushes and clears his throat before taking a loud sip from the mug. “Also I’m just awesome,” he adds, eager to smooth over the praise with his usual blustering. “And obviously Bohn was gonna choose the most awesome person to trust to stare down his junk for multiple hours.”

Bohn rounds the counter and snatches the mug back. “Revoked.”

“No! Come on!” Boss whines, jumping fruitlessly to try and take it back as Bohn holds it over his head and well out of reach. “You can’t expect me not to make jokes! I’ll die!”

“Then perish.”

Despite the mild mortification, the announcement still leaves Bohn feeling warm in the wake of it. Somehow, it seems earned, and that only makes him treasure it more. Hours later, while they’re cleaning up the last of the chips and bagging up all the disposable drink cups cluttering the living room, Duen says, low and soft, “I bet it feels a little weird to be congratulated,” and Bohn freezes where he’s fiddling with the ties on the trash bag. 

He thinks of how true that is, his heart thundering in his chest, and takes a second to try and burn the afternoon in his mind more permanently. His friends gathered around them, expressing their excitement, toasting to it as if it were something to be praised rather than scorned. They’d all taken the time to talk to Ben too, to dole him with their compliments about what a good brother he’ll be until Ben had been so flustered he’d taken refuge in his room with his Switch. “Yeah,” Bohn hears himself say, smiling. “It’s good though.”

It’s really, really good.

~~~***~~~

The third time Duen pulls up to a stoplight and puts his arm out across Bohn’s body in the passenger seat as he does so, Bohn just about bites his damn hand off. He reins it in though, drinks in a long inhale instead and casts a glance over to the right to see that Duen is still gripping the steering wheel like it’s a safety bar on a rollercoaster. No one should drive that white knuckled, he thinks to himself, but he lets it go. As it is he'd already spent half the morning reminding Duen of all the safety features of their new navy four-door, the same ones he’d been forced to sit through a powerpoint about a few weeks prior. Deep down he’s well aware that Duen’s spiking anxiety isn’t purposeful, but at surface level he can’t help but be annoyed regardless. There’s being protective and then there’s just being mollycoddled. To Bohn, getting mom-armed in his own fucking car at age twenty-three is the latter.

If it just happened during the house hunting it would be one thing. Bohn sort of understands that, at least, if only because it makes him uneasy too. As annoying as it is to wait in the car while Duen prowls around each property before he lets him check it out for himself, it’s also comforting. These places aren’t their territory, are outside of their usual haunts with their friends, it makes sense to be wary considering the circumstances. What he can’t stand is the overprotectiveness towards things he can take care of himself. Seatbelts exist, Bohn uses them, he doesn’t need to be pushed back every time they get to a red light or round a sharper than normal turn. 

He also doesn’t need to have his responsibilities taken away from him like a fucking child.

A week and a half into house hunting, Bohn’s waiting around for Duen to get off work in time for the next showing, and notices that the keys aren’t on the hook by the door. He wasn’t even planning on going out, so it’s only pure happenstance that he realizes it at all. But there it is, an empty hook that doesn’t sport a single set of keys. Not for their new car, not for his sports car, and certainly not for Duen’s motorcycle.

Fury pools in his gut, hot and harsh as it sinks in what Duen has done, and he’s suddenly very, very glad he’s already dropped Ben off with Frong because when Duen gets home he’s going to _murder him._

Luckily he’s moved past murder to just plain old yelling levels by the time Duen finally does return from work. But although his rage has simmered down, he’s still furious, almost too angry to even find the words for it. So for awhile he just stands there, lets Duen put the groceries away in oblivious silence before he moves to sit at the table, biting his tongue to keep from just screaming. 

“You took all the keys,” he says eventually, low, hollow, and he has to look away when Duen jerks his gaze up to stare at him with wide eyes. “How long were you doing that before I noticed?”

Duen swallows audibly. “Four or five days,” he admits, and Bohn has to stand before he just collapses, pace to the other side of the room and turn his entire body away from him to bury his head in his hands. “But I just- I didn’t want anything to happen to you while I was out,” Duen whispers, and Bohn hasn’t felt such horrible, visceral hurt well in his chest in _years_. 

“So you took the keys,” he snaps. “Just like that? Like my freedom is something for you to snatch away from me when you feel like it?” Bohn knows he’s saying too much, is going too far, but he’s not the one who crossed the line first. Not this time. He’s mad. He’s hurt. And he doesn’t know how not to lash out when everything is too much. He ignores it when Duen says his name, when his voice breaks around that single syllable. “I didn’t think you were that kind of alpha!” Bohn shouts, whirling on him, his teeth bared. “You fucking- you told my father I wasn’t something to be owned! And then you hide the keys to the cars like I am! What the fuck is wrong with you!?” Duen takes a step back, another, his hands held up like he’s trying to placate him, and that just makes it worse. “I would have _never_ gone off of the hormone blockers if I knew you’d get like this!”

He sees the anguish flicker and settle into Duen’s expression, but he doesn’t care. How dare he. _How dare he_. 

“I just don’t want you to get hurt,” Duen says weakly. “I don’t . . . I don’t know how else to-”

“Ask me!” Bohn snarls. “Try that, maybe! Fucking ask me to stay home while you’re gone! Or maybe, novel idea here I know, let me figure out shit on my own! I’m supposed to be your _partner_! You _said_ I was your partner! A baby shouldn’t change that unless you already thought so little of me in the first place!”

The idea that Duen might have, that beneath all the affection and praise and time he has always seen him as less carves out scores of raw agony in his chest, staggers his breath around a wounded sound he can’t help. He knows it’s not true, can see it clearly by the way Duen is looking at him now, terrified and hurting, too. But in the moment it feels like that, sinks into him in waves of sick unease until Bohn has to press the heels of his hands into his eyes to hide how close he is to breaking down. “Bohn,” Duen tries, hoarse, horrified. “I don’t- if anything, I think too much of you. You know that, right? I just- I don’t know what I’d do if-”

“Don’t touch me,” Bohn growls, sensing Duen’s hands hovering too close, and he takes a step back himself to make sure he can’t do it anyways. “Don’t fucking touch me. I _can’t_ -” He knows it’s instincts, that Duen is just biologically wound to be more on edge right now, but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s been done. “You can’t do that to me,” he chokes out. “You can’t take away my control like that without asking. What were you thinking?”

“. . . I wasn’t,” Duen whispers. “I just saw the keys one day on my way out and took them with me. Bohn, I’m so-”

“Don’t.” He doesn’t want the apologies, the explanations. Not right now. Duen’s startled shout follows him when he turns away, staggers into the bedroom and locks the door quickly behind him. It’s childish, but effective, and he sits on the edge of the bed as he hears Duen thump his fist to the wood of the door just once. Bohn listens to the sound of him cursing, of him pacing the hall outside for a minute, ten, before he finally leaves to the telltale echo of their front door slamming. It’s only after he goes that Bohn gets up and unlocks the door again, only after he’s sure he’s gone that he crawls under the covers and buries his face in the pillows on Duen’s side. 

He doesn’t cry, not over this, the hollowness in his chest too cold to stir up that kind of response. The worst part isn’t even that, either, but rather that no matter how he looks at it, they’ve both fucked up. He’s well aware that Duen’s struggling, that alpha instincts are harshest in the first four to six months of a pregnancy, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less, doesn’t make it right. 

Still, he leaves the door unlocked, curls up on Duen’s side of the mattress so that when he does get home, gets Ben put to bed and finally peeks in on him, he doesn’t shy away from the tentative touch to his back. 

Bohn lies still, evens his breathing and keeps his face turned pointedly away. “I know it’s hard,” he mutters before Duen can muster up an apology. “But you went too far. You get that, right?” He knows he does.

“Yeah.” The bed sinks down a bit on his other side, and Bohn scoots closer to the edge in halfhearted measures until Duen hooks a firm arm over his middle and draws him back to coil their bodies together. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs into the nape of his neck. “I’m . . . I’m trying, but I . . . I’m _scared to death_ ,” he confesses.

Bohn freezes in his grip for a long moment, his heart in his throat. “Why?” he can’t help but ask, knowing full well he’s going to regret it. He knows why. It’s the same reason his own instincts won’t kick into full gear until after the first trimester, why he won’t start nesting till halfway through. 

An alpha is more protective when the risk is highest. An omega is more protective when carrying to full term is almost guaranteed. 

He’s grateful when Duen doesn’t actually answer, instead shifting to wrap his other arm around him too and bury his head in the crook of his neck. “I’ve never done any of this before,” he reminds quietly. “I’m better at handling the instincts I already know what to do with. But I . . . It scares the hell out of me,” he whispers. “It’s all I can think about sometimes, all the ways you could end up hurt, how we could lose . . .” Duen cuts himself off with a sound that borders on a whimper, and Bohn finds where his hands are clenched in the fabric of his shirt over his abdomen, threads their fingers together and squeezes. “If something happens, it’ll feel like _my fault_. I’ll never not wonder if I could have done something more, could have been a better alpha. And that scares me.”

Truthfully, it scares Bohn, too. But the threat of it simmers low in his nerves, is tapered off because his body simply won’t let that level of fear, of attachment, settle into him yet. Right now he’s more afraid for Duen, who has wound himself so tightly in his fresh uncertainties that he didn’t even think before he took something that wasn’t his to take. Still. “Nothing is going to happen,” Bohn soothes. He pulls one of Duen’s hands up to his face, rubs his cheek over the inside of his wrist and inhales the comfort of their scents mixing together over his skin. It’s not a promise, not when it’s something he doesn’t have control over, but rather just the best assurance he can provide. “Everything is going to be fine.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No,” Bohn concedes. “But I know you. And me. Us. We’re going to bumble through this for a bit, but we’ll be okay. That’s sort of like our thing.”

Duen huffs out something close to a laugh over his neck. “Fucking it up until we figure it out is our thing? God, I hate how right you are.”

“I know,” Bohn hums, “But the point is that we do make it work, eventually.”

“I love you,” Duen murmurs, a kiss pressed to his throat, and Bohn’s heart will never not flip and tumble over those words. “I’m sorry I’m an asshole.”

“I’m sorry you’re an asshole, too,” he can’t help but say, snickering when Duen immediately retaliates by digging his fingers into his ribs. “I’m sorry I yelled,” he amends quickly. “But seriously, next time your dumb alpha brain tries to convince you something like that is a good idea, can you just get ahold of yourself enough to ask me first?” Duen nods, the motion clear enough that Bohn can feel it, and nuzzles up under his jaw with another murmured apology, another whispered affection. “I love you too,” Bohn assures, pleased when Duen just holds him tighter, their legs tangling together beneath the sheets as he presses a kiss to the shell of his ear, a rumble nearing a purr reverberating from his chest and into Bohn’s back. “But love won’t save you if you take my keys again,” he warns. 

“Noted.”

Duly noted, apparently, because Bohn finds that he doesn’t get mom-armed in the car for the next few days of house hunting. The prowling doesn’t let up, and he still has to wait in the car for Duen to decide the houses are safe enough to tour, but he doesn’t mind that bit. Hell, he even manages to take Ben and Daonua to the pool for a couple of hours without getting the hard side-eye, although he does subject himself to Duen coating him in enough sunscreen for three men before they go. Things settle, just a little, lull back into their new normal of tentative, if nervous, peace. So when they finally find the perfect house the timing just feels right.

Bohn knows it’s the one the second they pull into the driveway, and it’s only Duen’s hand on his thigh that keeps him from jumping out of the car to investigate right away. “Let me check it out first,” he pleads quietly, and Bohn slumps down in his seat with a sigh. “I’ll be quick,” he swears, which means he’ll be a half hour as always, but Bohn relents anyways. It’s all about compromise. 

He takes his time admiring it through the windows though, the air conditioning and the radio blasting as he waits. It’s the perfect size, not too small but not too big, a ranch style with just one floor but sprawled out enough to provide the space they’ll need. The thought of having room still to grow sends a thrill through him, warm with delight, and Bohn can’t help but tap his fingers impatiently at the glass as the minutes tick by. The yard is good too, a nice paved drive and a cobbled walkway to the front door with space for plants on either side. The back, from what he can see of it, is pretty much the same, surrounded by a low property fence despite the fact that the neighboring houses don’t butt up right against it. He imagines the promised swing set sitting there, the height of the fence just enough for Ben to lean on but not yet quite climb over without a boost. It’s good, it’s exactly what he wants. He just has to make sure the inside suits them, too.

When Duen finally comes back Bohn all but flies out of the car, eager to let the realtor lead them through the foyer. Duen praises the dining room, the kitchen, but Bohn fixates on the living room for awhile, taking note of the space available and the placement of every window. He wanders away while Duen is still gushing over the granite countertops, meandering down the hall to inspect the bathrooms. There are three of them, one in the hall and two attached to the biggest of four bedrooms. There’s an office too, tucked into the middle of the house next to the main bathroom, and Bohn frowns at its lack of natural light before he moves on, dismissing it as a potential guest room if they end up needing it. He moves past the two larger bedrooms as well after only a moment of admiration, drawn instead to the smaller ones in between them.

One of them, at the far northwest corner of the house, is lined with broad windows on either outer facing wall. There’s a seat curved into the sill beneath them, a right angle cushioned below the edge of the glass and looking out over the backyard. Bohn takes the breadth of the room in a few strides, sitting down on it and watching how the panes play sunset golds across the carpet at his feet and stretch back towards the door leading into the hall. 

“Is this it?”

He startles a little, glancing up to see Duen standing in the doorway and watching him with soft, fond eyes. Bohn knows he doesn’t have to answer, knows that Duen can tell, can read him just as well as he always has. He says it anyways though. “Yeah,” he whispers, a little awed as it sinks in. This isn’t just their new house, this is the room, the spot he’s going to nest in. 

Duen crosses the space between them and slides onto the windowsill seat at his side. “No take backs,” he teases. “You’re sure?”

Bohn nods, nervous energy thrumming through him as he reaches over to take one of Duen’s hands in his. He plays with his fingers for a moment, swallowing past the lump in his throat as he runs his thumb over Duen’s life line and back up across the length of his palm. “I want to have the baby here,” he says, and he hates the way his voice breaks, just a little. Duen doesn’t say anything though, merely leans in to kiss the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, before nosing over his neck. Bohn wonders if he can smell how terrified he is, can taste the trepidation on his skin.

He must, because Duen wraps his arms around him a second later, pulls him close until Bohn gives in and hides his face in the crook of his neck with a shuddering inhale. “I’ll be with you the whole time,” he reminds quietly. “I’ll be right here in this room with you.”

Such a simple thing, an easy promise, and yet it soothes away more old agony than Bohn’s sure Duen will ever know. 

The realtor is clearly glad to be rid of them by that point, eager to sign off on the mortgage especially once Bohn reveals he’ll be paying in full. They get their move-in date squared away, agree to pick up the keys set for a few days from then, and by the time they’re heading back to the apartment Bohn feels lighter than he has in weeks. He drums his fingers on the dash to the beat of whatever catchy pop song Duen has on his playlist, humming along in a tune that doesn’t quite match and smirking when his boyfriend rolls his eyes at him. “You like it,” he goads, already making plans in his head to ask Frong to keep Ben for another hour or two. It’s been a few weeks, their time taken up by more important things. He considers christening the new car, giving the back seat a sidelong glance as he thinks of it.

He’s distracted by that thought when another vehicle cuts in front of them, but he snaps back to attention as Duen’s arm whips out, pressing him back into the cushioning of the passenger seat as he slams on the brakes. Bohn inhales sharply, his hands coming up to dig into Duen’s forearm where it’s held over his chest. “Did that fucker just brake check us?” he asks hotly, annoyed and contemplating how many middle fingers is appropriate for the situation until he glances over and sees Duen staring at him with wide, wild eyes, his face white as a sheet. “ _Shit_. Pull over, can you pull over?”

Duen nods, but he barely manages it, does it one handed until they’re parked safely in the lot of a fast food place at the side of the road. Bohn’s unbuckling his seatbelt before the engine even turns off, scrambling over the median between them until he can wrap his arms around the other man’s shoulders. Duen is shaking like a leaf, every breath ragged and forced, and when he fists his hands in the back of Bohn’s shirt to tug him closer his grip trembles, too. “It’s okay,” Bohn whispers hoarsely. “Everything’s fine. Not a scratch on me,” he reassures. The scent of unfiltered fear is high in the air, and Bohn exhales and shakes his head, refusing to let it affect him as he runs his fingers through Duen’s hair, leaves lingering kisses over his jaw. “It’s okay,” he repeats, desperate to chase away every shudder that ripples through Duen’s body. “I’m safe. You kept me safe. You were good, you were so good. Duen, come on baby, everything’s fine.”

It takes longer than he’d like, drawn out minutes of just sitting there, letting Duen’s hands slowly trace out every inch of him with tentative, almost disbelieving touches. He’s tense despite how he’s shaking, and every time he sucks in a breath it rattles through him so much that Bohn can feel how it makes his heartbeat stagger from where they’re pressed together. When he leans back to check his eyes the sight of Duen’s pupils sized into panicked pinpricks draws an injured, horrified noise from his throat. “ _Baby_ ,” he gasps. “Baby, _no_. It’s okay, I promise. Look. Look at me, do I look hurt?”

He stays still while Duen reaches up to cradle his face between his hands, and barely breathes when one leaves his cheek to skim lower, to settle over his abdomen. “You’re okay?” Duen asks, and his voice comes out so weak, wavering, that Bohn wants to cry. He can’t though, not when there are tears pooling in Duen’s eyes, sliding thickly down as he sucks in a conscious, relieved sob. Bohn gathers him up against him again, pressing a kiss to his hair as Duen buries his face in his shoulder with another hitched, broken sound. 

It was just some asshole on the road, just a brake check from some haughty dickhead fooling around. Still, Bohn knows that to Duen it had been more than that, that to him it had been a thousand horrible scenarios pushed too close to becoming reality. “You kept me safe,” he whispers into his boyfriend’s hair. “I’m okay.” His shirt is damp over the shoulder now, straining across his back where Duen clutches at him, the fabric bunched between his fingers. He doesn’t care. His only concern is making sure Duen knows everything’s fine. 

He tilts his head obligingly to the side as Duen moves to rub his cheek over his neck, willingly pliant when teeth sink into the line of his collarbone. Duen’s breath is hot against his skin while he soothes away the mark he’s left, and Bohn reluctantly gets a hand between them after a moment, splays his fingers out over Duen’s sternum to push away from him. “Let me drive us home,” he urges. “Then you can do whatever you want to me, okay?”

It takes quite a bit of cajoling to get Duen to allow him drive, probably moreso than it would normally considering what just happened, but he manages it anyways, if only because Duen is clearly not in any state to do it himself. Bohn shoots Frong a quick text on their way up the elevator, promising him whatever exorbitant repayment he’d like to keep Ben for a few more hours. He’s barely finished sending it and pocketing his phone when they get into the apartment, and he’s not sure why he bothered when it clatters to the floor a moment later as Duen shoves him up against the door. 

“Whoa!” Bohn yelps, his hands finding Duen’s shoulders when teeth drag over the juncture of his jaw and insistent fingers palm at his ass. 

His pants and underwear are tugged down to bunch at his thighs, and he startles as Duen presses him back harder into the wood of the door, pushes him up until he gives in and wraps his calves around his sides. "Baby," he gasps, his fingers tangling in Duen's hair and tugging until he's forced to look up at him with wide, blown out pupils. "Slow down," Bohn orders lowly. "Talk to me."

Duen just stares at him for a long, heavy second, his lips slightly parted and his chest heaving. When Bohn trails a hand down to his neck, finds his pulse, he's startled by how fast it spikes under his touch. _Adrenaline_ , he acknowledges somewhere in the back of his mind. The one surefire thing to tip anyone over the edge of inhibition. And sure enough, Duen's next words are a hoarse, "Need you," that borders dangerously close to a growl. "Need you," he repeats, wavering, desperate, and Bohn's heart aches with sympathy. "Bohn, _I need you_."

"I know," Bohn answers readily, cradling Duen's face in his hands. "It's okay. Take what you need, just be careful with me, alright? Not too rough."

He watches through half lidded eyes as his words sink in, how they make Duen's expression shift into something a little more firm and a lot less frantic. When his teeth latch onto Bohn's throat it's harsh but controlled, the dig at his flesh just enough to leave pressure indents and no more. Bohn groans as he does it, finding purchase on Duen's shoulders again as he registers the sound of a zipper. "Here?" he can't help but ask, faintly surprised even as Duen presses up against him, already painfully hard. "You sure you can hold me up?" Bohn continues, just to clarify. He's not really looking forward to a bruised tailbone if he can't. Apparently the answer to that is a yes, because Duen ducks his head to nip at the underside of his jaw and enters him without further preamble. 

Bohn chokes on a startled noise, his head thumping back against the door as Duen adjusts to get a better grip on his thighs and push in deeper. He grinds up into the heat of him, and Bohn's fingers flex over his shoulders, threatening to tear the seams of his t-shirt. " _Fuck,_ " he whines, his heels digging into Duen's back. Duen is trembling against him, twitching in him, his breath hot and ragged over his collarbones as he rests his forehead in the crook of his neck. Every centimeter of him feels wound tight with coiled restraint beneath Bohn's hands, and once he gets his breath back he wraps his arms over his boyfriend's shoulders properly so he can linger kisses over the side of his face, the line of his jaw, the shell of his ear. "It's okay," he assures. "It's okay. I'm right here. Go ahead, baby, you can use me. Just be careful."

It's not the first time they've done this, though it's still happened rarely enough for Bohn to be able to count the instances on one hand. Normally Duen's self control is phenomenal, only triggered into lapsing when he gets too worked up to keep ahold of it. And really, Bohn's not even sure that's entirely it, either. He's almost certain, in fact, that Duen only lets himself slip like this because he knows Bohn can handle it, that he'll be taken care of. "Come on," Bohn urges when he still doesn't move. "I've got you."

That's enough it seems, another whispered reassurance, and Duen's fingers press into his thighs with bruising intensity as he pulls almost all the way out only to cant back in with just enough force to make Bohn cry out. He's breathless within seconds, biting down on a whimper as Duen fucks into him like a man starved. The pace toes the line of being brutal, softened in intervals where he has to readjust his grip to keep Bohn held against the door, faltering to just jerk into him in short, shallow thrusts. Bohn takes it gladly, breathlessly, every exhale scattered with broken praises against Duen's ear. "Th- _ah!_ \- there you go, baby. There you- _hah_ \- there you go. I've got you."

The pleasure of this lies more in the act itself than the ecstasy it sparks through his nerves. It's the intrinsic way in which he's needed that gets to him; knowing that when Duen is most frayed at the seams the greatest comfort he seeks is him, intimately, deeply, drawn to the simple relief of the embrace of their bodies together. He can't help but love that, even if every time it's necessary it's preceded by something bad. At his core Bohn knows his own desires are almost modest in their candor, wrapped up in his most basic hunger to be needed, to be wanted. And he also knows that Duen likes that, too. "You're doing so- _ah_ \- so good, baby," he murmurs against the curve of Duen's jaw, his fingers scratching up into the hair at the nape of his neck as Duen responds by digging his teeth into the hollow of his throat. Bohn keens, his calves squeezing around Duen's sides. He can feel the knot catching against him as it swells, and he bunches the back of Duen's shirt up in his palm, between his fingers. Close or not, he knows Duen isn't in the right headspace to focus on him, is merely chasing his own pleasure, and there's not enough room between them for Bohn to do it himself. He doesn't mind though, eager to relish in everything else, happy to merely provide this time.

His breath pants out of him in shudders on the next thrust, the one after, and he hides his face against the side of Duen's head as the knot finally has to be ground against his center before it's shoved inside and sticks. " _F-fuck_ ," Bohn groans, clenching down around it. Duen's teeth have sunk into his collarbone again, harsh enough when he comes to puncture the skin, but Bohn doesn't care. He registers the faint trickle of blood beneath his shirt with disconnected, distant dizziness, his mind zeroed in on the pulse inside him, his fingers flexing in the fabric over Duen's back with every deep jerk and spill. 

Duen's hands are shaking on his thighs, and Bohn takes a moment to breathe before he whispers, "Slowly. Let us down slowly." He does so, keeping Bohn braced against the back of the door until he's kneeling on the mat in front of it and settling his partner in his lap. "Good," Bohn praises.

They're both quiet for awhile, their breathing evening out into calmer inhales, softer exhales across skin where they're still wound together. Bohn traces lazy patterns out over Duen's back, his cheek pressed to the crook of his neck. Duen doesn't move much, caught up in simply being close, his face buried in Bohn's shoulder and his hands coiling around the hem of his shirt tight enough that Bohn half worries it will rip. When he finally does speak it's so quiet that even with their proximity Bohn almost doesn't hear him. 

"I'm sorry."

Bohn acknowledges the apology with a dismissive hum in the back of his throat. "Don't be. Are you okay?"

That's what matters. That has always been what matters most to him. Duen huffs out a soft but affirmative sound at his shoulder, though his hands still twist at the fabric over the small of Bohn's back. "Sorry," he repeats after a moment, still too quiet, a little too hitched. Bohn nuzzles at his jaw, his cheek, desperate to ease the lingering unease in his tone. "I know it was nothing, but I just . . ."

He doesn't need to finish the confession. Bohn knows. Duen's fears always manifest the most viciously when he has something to lose. "It's not nothing," he assures. And really, it definitely could have been something. A slower reaction, a second's difference in time, and it could have easily been much more than a brake check. He cards his fingers through Duen's hair, slow, careful, feather light kisses left over whatever of him he can reach in between. There's more he could say, a multitude of simple solaces to offer, but they all taste wrong on his tongue. Whatever he could say he's sure Duen already understands. So instead he chooses the most obvious one, the most surefire fortitude they've built upon for years now. "Love you," Bohn whispers.

All things considered, he figures they're allowed this much, that they deserve the time for a breakdown. For fuck's sake, Duen is twenty-one. Bohn would be far more concerned if he never had one. "Promise me you'll tell me if all of this is ever too much," he murmurs at his ear. "Or if it's no longer worth it." 

Once, not all that long ago in the grand expanse of what he hopes will be a long life, he hadn't been ready either.

But Duen just grips the back of his shirt tighter, holds him closer, his embrace firm and fierce despite the way he trembles on an inhale. "Never," he swears quietly. " _Never_ , Bohn." This time when he noses at his shoulder it's deliberate, shifting so he can scrape his teeth over Bohn's neck, find that spot along the underside of his jaw that he's so fond of worrying. "I just want to do good by you," he says, the words thrumming through him. "And I'm terrified of fucking it up. There's so much at stake, I can't help but be paralyzed by it sometimes. I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Bohn repeats. And then, because he feels like it needs to be said, always but especially now, he adds, "Thank you."

Duen puffs out a confused sound over his throat, "For what?"

"For being you."

His beautiful, kind, sunshine boy. Bohn wouldn't trade him for all the world. He's loose in his embrace, quiet as Duen scents him, holding him while they're intimately tied and grounded. It's an old line, one spoken to him during their first heat together, but it's never left his mind. He hopes Duen knows he means it just as vehemently, just as deeply. Fear of a future still being mapped will never overwhelm him so long as he's anchored by Duen's affection, and he knows the reverse holds equally true.

~~~***~~~

"You're going to have to buy a new mattress," Bohn says suddenly while they're still unpacking, and Duen looks over at him like he's _insane_.

"Dare I ask what's wrong with the one we have?"

Bohn considers the sarcasm and dismisses it. "I want this one for the nest," he explains. The instinct still hasn't quite hit him yet, but it will soon, and he knows this much at least. "This one smells like us," he notes, eyeing where it's been propped up against the wall while they assemble the bed. "So unless you want to sleep on an empty frame, you should buy a new one."

Duen stares at him for a long moment, his lips parted in extended bewilderment before he asks, hesitant, “Right now?”

Truthfully, Bohn wants to say no. They have months still before he'll actually use the mattress. So he does not in fact need it any time soon. But what comes out of his mouth is a rather low, “Yes.” Well, okay then. 

Luckily Duen only looks vaguely exasperated, shaking his head for a moment before he hands over the directions for the bed frame. “Alright. Do you want to come with or are you staying here?”

“I’ll hang out here,” Bohn says without hesitation. There’s plenty for him to do at the house, too much actually, and he’s loathe to leave it while it still feels so unsettled around him. “Try not to get something that will squeak too much,” he instructs coyly when Duen stands to leave, earning a deadpan look in return.

Left to his own devices, he finishes interpreting the assembly for the frame and finishes it off in record time for better pursuits. Despite the number of people milling about, unloading boxes and chatting, the house is fairly quiet as he makes his way down the hall. He can hear Boss and Tingting arguing in the kitchen, and when he peeks out through one of the windows he can see that King and Ram arel painstakingly transplanting his rosebush into the spot he’d chosen by the front walk. His destination isn’t either of these areas, though, and Bohn dallies in the hall for a bit before he pokes his head around the corner into Ben’s room.

They’d taken the time to set that one up first, days before they were to actually move in. The bunk bed is already tucked against the far wall, the bookshelves and desk pre-built and arranged. Ben is sitting on the floor with a box of his things, rifling through them half-heartedly with a tiny frown on his face. There’s a pile of his bed sheets and blankets on the bottom bunk behind him, untouched, and Bohn observes this with quiet care before he steps into the space. “New house, new smells, huh?” he sympathizes, and Ben blinks up at him under his bangs and wrinkles his nose.

“It smells like paint,” he complains, and Bohn laughs. “And wood polish. And cleaning wipes. And-”

“Alright, alright,” Bohn snickers, “I get it. Believe me.” He hadn’t been able to help clean and paint the place, but the scent of everything else Ben has listed lingers in his nose too. It’s definitely unpleasant, to say the least, but there’s also not much they can do about it other than settle in and let time take effect. 

“And you washed my sheets,” Ben whines, and Bohn has to bite his lip to keep from snorting. 

He makes his way over to the pile of bed things and starts sorting them, tossing half of them onto the upper bunk. “Here,” he cajoles while Ben watches with a stubborn pout, “how about I make the bed for you. Will that help?” At the very least it’ll leave his scent on the sheets, a small solace in the discomfort for a child in a new territory. Ben doesn’t answer, clearly uncertain if that’s really going to have an effect, but Bohn goes about the task anyways. Once he’s sorted out the mystery of how fitted sheets function it’s easy, and he makes sure to spend a few minutes on every pillowcase and the comforter, rubbing the inside of his wrists over the fabric as he spreads it out across the bed. 

“The top, too,” Ben whispers after a minute, and Bohn obliges without hesitation. 

He’s suddenly glad they chose a place with such high ceilings, as he’s able to kneel on the upper bunk without bumping his head. Ben picked entirely different bedspreads for each full sized mattress, and Bohn spends a few minutes amused by the dichotomy of the dinosaurs on the top bed and the racecars on the lower one as he works. Once he’s done he leans over the railing, unsurprised to find Ben watching him from the floor with a wary expression. “Scared of heights?” he teases. 

Ben scowls, but stands to climb the ladder with a clipped, “No.” He pauses at the top, eyelevel now with the mattress, and Bohn watches his nostrils flare and his eyebrows furrow, still suspicious. 

Sometimes, he wonders if he was ever like this as a child. Except he’s pretty sure he never was. His parents had been too distant, too cold, and the scent he bears has always been so starkly different from theirs they might as well not have even been related. He reclines back on the mattress, stretching out on his side as he waits for Ben to decide what he wants. Once, Duen had told him it was the little things that would matter the most, the intricacies in which he’s done his best with what he could. While oftentimes he still doesn’t quite believe that, others, like now, he finds them wholly true. Bohn had never wanted or needed the comfort of a territorial, familial scent as a child; the fact that Ben clearly does curls fond and possessive warmth behind his ribs. After another moment Ben seems to make up his mind, and he clambers the rest of the way up the ladder to slide under Bohn’s waiting arm and tuck his head beneath his chin.

Overall the room still smells of paint and varnish, but here between them Bohn can only pick up every little thing that makes up his family. He rubs his cheek over the crown of Ben’s head, a rumbling purr reverberating in his chest when his son leans into the motion, and then, to his utter delight, returns it with a press of his own over Bohn’s sternum. Bohn grins into his hair and holds him just a little bit tighter.

As always and like any kid his age, Ben starts to squirm after awhile, flustered by the coddling, and he sits up and swings his legs over the railing of the bunk. Bohn props himself up on an elbow, smirking for a moment before he remembers what he really came in here for. “Hey,” he says, waiting for Ben to glance over at him before he continues, “I have something to show you. Found it in one of the boxes for the bedroom. Do you want to see?”

In truth he’s known where it was the whole time, tucked away in the back of his closet in the last two apartments he’s lived in. He’s just never had a reason to take it out, or perhaps it had simply hurt too much to look at it before now. Showing it to Ben though seems right, especially since he fully intends to reuse it.

Despite the fact that it’s not needed for months yet Bohn had taken the time to set it up anyways, if only for this purpose. The mattress has been put back onto the frame for the moment, and when Ben follows him into the master bedroom he sits down on the edge and pulls the little three-sided bassinet up against it. “This was yours,” he explains, just in case it’s not obvious. 

It’s not much really, just a little thing, a small consolation he’d clung to years ago now. Still, it means the world to him. He wouldn’t have kept it otherwise. Ben stares at it for a long minute, his eyes wide, and says nothing for even longer. When he finally does speak, what squeaks out of him is a bewildered, “I wasn’t that small.”

Bohn chokes on a laugh, “You were pretty tiny.” He holds his hands apart in front of his chest in a vague estimation, and then after a second of consideration shortens the distance even more. He’d been smaller then too, afterall. “You were early,” he says, and every word exhaled feels like a weight off his chest even if he knows there are parts of it he’ll always keep to himself. Ben had been early, and he’d been terrified. “Three weeks early,” Bohn clarifies, “So you were actually a little smaller than most babies." Just a bit over two kilograms, he'd been so scared he might hurt him, hold him wrong or make a mistake. "I could fit your whole body in my hands." When he says it he cups his palms together side by side and smiles when Ben's eyebrows climb into his hairline with disbelief. 

"Is the baby going to be that small?"

Nervous energy churns in Bohn's gut at the thought, but he manages a shrug. "I don't know." Hopefully not. "Why do you ask?"

While they were talking Ben has moved closer, close enough to look down into the bassinet, a frown quirking at the corners of his mouth. "Will I have to hold it?" he asks, almost meek in his uncertainty.

"You don't have to. But if you want to, you could. It'll be your sibling," Bohn reminds gently. "Whatever you're comfortable with, you can do. And your phorh or I will help you. Okay?"

Ben nods even though the apprehension is still obvious on his face. He seems slightly reassured however by the mention of Duen, and while Bohn is thrilled by how much his son clearly trusts his partner, he can't help the bitter, envious ache that wells behind his ribs. Still, he's grateful for what he has, what Ben has already opened himself up to for him. He will never dare ask for more than what Ben is willing to give. Even if that means he'll call Duen "phorh" and Bohn "hey" for the rest of his life. Snorting at the thought, amused despite how much it tugs at his heart, Bohn says, "If you're lucky, the baby will be much more like your phorh than me and you. Less fussy and more levelheaded."

Ben huffs, "I'm not fussy."

"You got upset last night when two different foods touched on the plate Duen dished up for you," Bohn grins. It had been the same meal that Bohn had foregone entirely in favor of instant noodles and ice cream, but that's beside the point. 

"Different flavors shouldn't touch," Ben reiterates testily, and then, after a moment of thought, his teeth digging into his lower lip, he asks, "Was I fussy as a baby?"

Bohn puts on his best smile and doesn't let it waver despite how much the question unintentionally stings. He only knows so much about the years he was still in school, his interactions with Ben mostly stolen, hidden away in quiet midnight shadows. If Ben had hated certain baby foods, whether or not he'd been the sort to wiggle around when discomforted after a meal, or if he'd cried the first time he'd fallen after walking, Bohn will never know. In this at least he will always fall short. So he offers what he does know instead, a scant few memories that are untainted enough for him to even recall them. "You cried a lot at night," he admits. "Sometimes, I could get you to settle down just by putting my hand on you, but other times I had to take you out of the bassinet."

If Ben cried for long enough the nursemaid would come get him, take him away for the rest of the night, and Bohn had never been able to muster up any protests that changed her mind. He wasn't the one paying her. Eventually though he'd gotten good enough at quieting Ben down himself that he could keep him in his room for a little while longer. "I would lay you on my chest, and you would fall back asleep pretty quickly" he explains. "That's . . . That's how I held you the first time, too."

He's often wondered, both now and then, whether that had had anything to do with it. It was a nice thought, even if it likely wasn't true. To think that Ben remembered that on some basic level and been soothed by the sound of Bohn's heart, the scent in the proximity, had motivated him to keep trying, keep reaching for a better future, another chance. 

More than anything, Bohn is well aware that he craves the gravity of connection. He chases it recklessly sometimes, hesitantly others, but he reaches for it regardless. The fact that Ben had been most easily lulled in the same way he'd taken his first breaths will always linger with him. 

"Do you have any pictures?" Ben asks suddenly, softly, and it takes Bohn a second to leave his thoughts behind enough to process it.

He pulls out his phone before answering, flipping through the gallery of cloud saves until he finds the password locked folder. Technically, he supposes he can leave it open now, the need to keep it secret no longer an obstacle in his life. "Here," he offers, holding the phone back out to Ben once he's found the one he's looking for.

Ben takes it gingerly, and Bohn watches him study the image on the screen. It's his favorite one, the exact details of it all but burned into his mind by now with how much he's looked at it. To anyone else it probably just seems like a rather domestic looking selfie, but it was the first picture Bohn had felt reckless enough, brave enough, to take at all. He'd been laying on his back on the bed, Ben cradled up against his sternum, his chubby cheek mushed over Bohn's chest and his little fists balled into the fabric of his t-shirt. Bohn isn't even really smiling in it so much as he's staring, attention captured by the sight reflected back at him on the screen, his lips slightly parted and his eyes half lidded with more than physical weariness. If anything he looks awed, mesmerized despite everything, the closest to being happy in that moment than he'd been the entire year prior.

"C-can you send this to me?" Ben asks, tripping on the words as if he thinks he'll be denied. 

"Of course," Bohn answers easily. "I can send you some other ones too, if you'd like."

Ben hands him the phone back, nodding even as he starts to turn away. "I still have stuff to unpack," he says hurriedly, and Bohn isn't oblivious enough to miss how thick his voice sounds. He lets him go though, gives him the space he's clearly needing, and sets about finding the best pictures to share. 

There aren’t as many as he’d like, not when he’d felt he’d had to sneak them any time he took one, let alone when he dared to take a few of them together. The majority of his pictures of him and Ben are from after he’d been in university, when Ben had already been in school himself. He finds one of Ben when he was first starting to walk, a rare one taken by one of his more sympathetic nannies. Bohn is holding Ben’s hands up over his head, giving him support as he steps forward. He’d missed his first ones, had only known they’d even happened after he’d come home from school, but he made time to be there for his stumbling seconds. 

In a picture of Ben’s second birthday, Bohn had brought him a gift outside of the family held party. It’s a stolen moment; Ben is clutching the stuffed elephant that’s nearly the same size as he is, Bohn blowing a raspberry against his cheek that’s making him squeal, a selfie taken with the backdrop of a distant socialite event that can be seen through the windows behind them. That was the picture Bohn had shown King a week later, sixteen and tired of lying.

Another depicts them in King’s backyard the year before Bohn had started university, before he’d moved out. It’s a near mirror to the one he had just shown to Ben, the only difference being their age. At four Ben hadn’t quite fit on his chest anymore and had settled for merely being tucked up against his side. There’s a damp spot on Bohn’s shirt beneath his cheek, his mouth open and drooling, and the image is fuzzy at the edges because of how much Bohn is snickering about it from where he’s laying in the grass, the phone held overhead to freeze the moment in time.

He sends all of those and sets his phone down on the bedside table to rub a hand over his eyes. It’s not much, but he hopes it’s enough anyways. Afterall, he can only give what he has, and he can only make up for what’s already been lost by moving forward. When he looks up again he’s startled to see he’s no longer alone, blinking as he notices Boss shifting from foot to foot in the doorway of the bedroom. 

“Sorry,” he says hastily when Bohn makes eye contact with him. “I just wanted to know if you needed help moving the mattress? Duen texted me that he’ll be back soon with a new one, so . . .”

Oh, yeah. “Sure,” Bohn agrees easily as he stands to start flipping it off of the frame. Boss scrambles around to assist, and after a little shoving they get it up onto its side where it can be pushed through the door. Boss is quiet while they work it down the hallway, but Bohn catches him glancing his way every few seconds, doesn’t miss how he bites at his lower lip like he’s struggling not to say something. He’s half tempted to just tell him to spit it out, but he’s also not really sure he wants to hear whatever it is. There’s a weight to Boss’s gaze, a visible measure of concern, and by the time they squeeze the mattress into the future nursery Bohn is thoroughly unsettled under it. 

“Any spot in particular you want it?” Boss asks, eyeing the expanse of the room with a raised eyebrow. 

Bohn waves a dismissive hand and tips the whole thing over onto the floor, ignoring Boss’s squawk when it falls. “Nah, not yet.” He’s sure in a month, or a week, whenever it all finally kicks into full gear he’ll have some pretty strong opinions on how the room should be arranged. For now though he’s just set on the mattress being there. Throwing himself down onto it, Bohn crosses his legs along the edge and leans back on his hands, waiting. Boss has always been a kettle on the edge of boiling, his thoughts visible for everyone to see well before they spill over into spoken word. 

It only takes a couple more seconds, and he watches Boss agonize over it for every bit of them, his mouth twisting before he finally blurts out, “You’re okay with all this, right?”

Bohn blinks. “Huh?”

Boss glances around them, at the broad windows with the seat underneath, the mattress on the carpet, the freshly painted lavender walls, and then finally at Bohn himself. He lingers there for awhile, long enough that Bohn wonders what exactly he’s being cross examined for. “When we first met . . .” Boss says slowly, carefully, and Bohn immediately knows where this is going, “Do you remember how you had to get stitches?”

Technically he doesn’t. He’d been drunk on the tail end of a traditional freshman barhop, and King had ducked out hours before him. Boss had stuck to his side because they shared a few classes, so when Bohn had taken a bad trip on the curb and cut his arm open on a broken bottle, he’d been too good to him by making sure he got the medical attention he needed.

Except Bohn hadn’t been in a clinic of any sort since Ben had been born, and inebriated as he was, he’d panicked the second they got him on the exam table. 

“I bit you,” Bohn says at the same time Boss blurts out, “I had to hold you down.”

They stare at each other for a long moment, and Bohn takes in a few steadying breaths as he waits for Boss to continue. “They had to sedate you,” he whispers, “just for six stitches. And when I took you home, saw Ben’s room you were still putting together and realized why, I . . . Bohn, I felt _awful_. I should have asked you earlier, at the party, but I was so excited about the mug I forgot why we even made that stupid pact in the first place.” He swallows hard, and Bohn gets to his feet. “I should have asked you sooner. But you- you are okay with this, aren't you? Duen . . . _No one,_ ” he amends, “no one is forcing you to go through with this, right?”

Bohn wraps his arms around him as soon as he’s finished speaking, shaking his head. “No,”he assures quickly, fiercely. “No, I promise it’s not like that. I’m actually really, _really_ happy.”

Boss nods against his shoulder, sniffling a little, and Bohn can’t help but smile, out of sight. “You’re positive? You wouldn’t lie to me, right?”

“I literally told you about Ben within a week of meeting you,” Bohn reminds when he pulls back to hold him at arm’s length while Boss scrubs the heels of his hands over his eyes as he nods again. “Really,” Bohn repeats, “I want this. Thank you though,” he says, and he means it with every fibre of his being. “It means a lot to me that you wanted to check.”

It’s no different from Duen making sure he knew he had options, just another old promise looked after. Another difference between Bohn at fourteen, scared and denied of a choice, and Bohn at twenty-three, old enough to know he would always end up here. They’d bought that stupid mug under the guise of a whim, knowing full well they were being entirely serious. He thinks of Boss four years ago, joking at his countertop in his first apartment, his hand bandaged over where Bohn had sunk his teeth into it, teasing, “ _Next time you should let me help. I know what I’m doing, it’ll save you a lot of trauma_.” There are no scars left over from that night, physical or otherwise, just a dusty, corny mug and a pact made in faux jest. 

Boss sucks in an unsteady inhale but when he looks up at Bohn he’s trying his hardest not to smile. “I’m glad,” he says around a hiccup, and his relief is palpable. “I’m so glad. You deserve it, you know.”

Bohn raises an eyebrow, “What?”

“Being happy,” Boss clarifies. “I’m glad you’re happy. You deserve to be.”

Oh.

Bohn stares at him for a long, startled moment, too stunned by such an obvious yet unexpected declaration. But it’s true though, right? Maybe? Doesn’t he?

Then again, what criteria determines who does and doesn’t deserve to be happy? Who decides? Is it cosmic karma? The people around him? Or is it just him. Maybe he simply has to reach for that himself, realize it by grasping all he has and everything he’s earned. Whatever it is, it’s only after Boss says it that Bohn wonders if it’s true. 

For once, he doesn’t feel like he’s stealing his happiness. All he has and is lies out in the open now, nothing is left to hide away in snuck pictures and muted heats. 

“Thank you,” he says again, and means it even more than the first time. 

Boss just grins at him, bright as ever, as if his easy words didn’t brush another layer of weight off Bohn’s shoulders. Oddly, it seems harder fought for than his graduation, his freedom, tougher to accept because he hadn’t yet embraced it himself.

His hands still on Boss’ shoulders, he looks around the room again. The wide windows oversee the backyard where Thara and Frong are assembling a swing set, and sunset hues dash along the lavender walls Duen and Tang had painstakingly painted the week before. When he strains his ears he can hear Ben shelving books in his new room, Tingting rattling dishes around in the kitchen Duen will cook in to thank everyone for their help, and the low whispers of King and Ram as they settle his rosebush into the front garden where Bohn desperately hopes it will take root for generations. “I am happy,” he whispers, hushed and a little awed, admitting it aloud mostly for himself this time. He is. He is happy. And he knew that already. 

But now he's awash with the knowledge that he deserves to be.

~~~***~~~

Bohn _hates_ the new mattress, his lip curling even as Duen sprawls across it with an exhausted sigh. The house is quiet now, settled with the sounds of midnight. Ben had passed out shortly after dinner, having spent most of the evening breaking in the swing set with Daonua before Duen’s mom had taken her home. They’d been far from the last to leave, and Duen had excused himself shortly before Ram and King had finally said their farewells so he could make the bed. 

But even with their familiar sheets on it Bohn hates it, and he stands off to the side while Duen snuggles into the pillows, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. When Duen finally peeks over at him to see why he hasn’t gotten into bed yet he can’t help but cross his arms defensively over his chest, embarrassed by his own haughtiness even as he continues to display it.

“Phi,” Duen soothes sleepily. “Don’t be like that, it’s just a bed. It’ll smell like us eventually.”

Bohn purses his lips together to keep from growling. He knows that, but right now knowing it doesn’t help. “Sorry,” he mutters, taking a step back despite his words. Maybe his instincts are finally kicking in, because his aversion to the clean, untouched mattress is almost visceral. 

Duen sits up at the apology, frowning. “Is it really that bad?”

No, probably not. Bohn shakes his head rather than try and say it though, stubbornness stalling his tongue. It’s bad to him, and that’s what matters right now, as much as he refuses to admit it. But there isn’t a good solution to fix it, not when the problem is simply that it doesn’t smell right. Duen’s correct, it’ll amend itself with time, with both of them using it like they normally would . . .

Bohn perks up as the idea wiggles to the forefront of his mind and solidifies. Yeah, that might work. “Stay right there,” he orders, and Duen just raises an eyebrow as he darts into their closet. He finds what he’s looking for almost immediately and shrugs out of the t-shirt he’d been wearing to pull it on instead. He kicks out of his pajama pants while he’s at it, but after a quick look in the mirror on the inside of the door decides that keeping his underwear on has a better effect. 

Duen gives him a wary side-eye when he emerges again, his cheeks pinkening as his gaze flickers over him. “Why are you wearing the ‘Knocked Up’ shirt?” he asks hoarsely, and by the way he clamps his mouth shut as soon as he says it, he already knows _exactly_ why.

“Because you _like it,_ ” Bohn teases. He tries not to recoil as he kneels on the edge of the mattress, even though he’s fairly sure Duen catches him shuddering anyways. 

“. . . I don’t-” Duen croaks, clamming up when Bohn crawls towards him until he’s draped over his side. 

“You do,” Bohn smirks, certain of it now. “You think it’s hot. You like being reminded of what you did to me.”

Duen stares at him, and Bohn watches with unparalleled delight as his pupils darken. “Maybe,” he says lowly, as good of a confession as Bohn knows he’s going to get. And then, because Duen has never been above dishing it out right back at him, he adds, almost coy, “What are you planning to do about it?”

Bohn grins, cheshire and smug, and puts a palm to the center of Duen’s chest to push him down onto his back. “Well,” he starts, his hands sliding up under the hem of his boyfriend’s shirt. “You already went the extra mile today to get the mattress, so I figure I should be the one to break it in.” Duen’s breath hitches audibly, and Bohn straddles his hips as he tugs the shirt off over the other's head and tosses it to the floor. He splays his fingers across the revealed bare skin, delighting in how Duen’s most flustered flushes always spread down to his sternum. When he glances up at his face Duen is staring at him, slack jawed and wide-eyed, and Bohn’s own breath staggers through him on the next inhale. He leans in, waits for Duen’s hands to clasp around his hips before he speaks again, heady and hot over his ear. “Wanna watch me go for a ride, baby?”

“ _God,_ **_yes_** ,” Duen says without hesitation, each syllable dripping with want. His fingers are already slipping under the elastic line of Bohn’s underwear, and Bohn pushes himself up onto his knees obligingly as they do, shivering in anticipation when Duen slides them down his thighs.

He braces his hands on the mattress on either side of Duen’s chest to kick out of them entirely before he shifts to work on the ties of his boyfriend’s pajama pants. “How do you want me?” he asks, tugging them just low enough to get at what he needs. Duen arches up beneath him when he curls a hand around his cock, his grip on Bohn’s hips clenching towards bruising in an instant. He’s already hard, but Bohn still takes a moment to tease him, twisting a fist along the length of him until Duen gasps and squeezes his eyes shut. A bead of precum pools at the head and Bohn swipes a thumb through it before it can drip down and waits for Duen to peek up at him through his eyelashes before he brings it up to his mouth and licks it clean. Duen chokes on a groan, and Bohn lets himself be manhandled to where he wants him, on his knees and tantalizingly close. “Answer me,” he urges, reaching beneath him to line them up. He flattens a palm to Duen’s abdomen as he does it, holds him down as he drags the head of his cock over the core of him, so close but not quite. “How do you want me?”

Duen sucks in a staggered inhale, his eyes breathtakingly half-lidded and dark as his fingers flex along Bohn’s waist. “Just like this,” he finally responds huskily. 

Bohn watches the rise and fall of his chest while he sinks down, revels in the way Duen’s heart thunders under his hands, and smirks when Duen throws his head back as he bottoms out. He’s always like this when Bohn takes charge, easily strung out and dazzled, every breath heaving through him in jagged pants. Bohn swivels his hips a little before he leans down over him, and moans a bit himself when Duen’s knees come up behind his back in an effort to keep him fully seated as he does it. He taps his fingers over the side of Duen’s throat, glides them up under his chin and waits until his eyes flicker open again. “Look at you, pretty boy,” Bohn purrs, a little star struck too. Duen’s cheeks are ruddy with pink, his eyes so dark and blown out that Bohn can’t even distinguish the ring of his irises. _Gorgeous_. Bohn pushes back up again as soon as that gaze settles on him. “You gonna watch me?” he asks, biting down on his lower lip as he raises onto his knees and then rocks back down, just slow enough to tease but hard enough to elicit a gasp from his own lungs. 

Duen doesn’t answer that one, but Bohn can read the hunger in his eyes well enough to not really need the verbal confirmation. At this point in their relationship this is almost a game for him anyways. He likes taking his time, staving off his own gratification for long, edged on minutes just to see what sort of noises he can get out of Duen. It’s delicious to him that this is his weakness, that for as quiet as Duen can oftentimes be in bed, he’s startlingly loud whenever Bohn gets the urge for this. Every moan is a reward, but it’s the conscious words that Bohn likes the most, the heated swears and choked utterances of his name. 

He knows his own body well enough to chase himself to the precipice, has perfected the exact angles to take on the downfall, the rhythm with which to send tingling electricity through his nerves. And Duen knows them too. When Bohn falters on his own pleasure, Duen’s grip on his hips tightens, pushes and pulls to guide him until Bohn is able to breathe on his own again. “Good?” Bohn can’t help but ask the next time Duen pants out his name, because there’s nothing he likes more than the praise of the moment. He wants it to be good, craves to hear Duen telling him that it is. He loves this too much not to. When Duen just nods he pauses and sits back, his thighs trembling as he holds himself still. “Come on baby,” he murmurs, “tell me. I want to know how good it is for you.”

Duen’s hands shift on his hips and slide lower to cup around his ass and squeeze. Bohn’s up on his knees again instinctually, grinding back down with a choked little noise as his partner’s persistent touch encourages him. He gets what he wants regardless though, his lips parting on a moan of his own as Duen whispers, “Perfect. You’re _perfect_. God, Bohn, I-” His hands continue to wander while Bohn moves, brush over the small of his back and trace around his sides, and Bohn is so engrossed in the feel of it that he almost misses the way Duen’s breath hitches sharply as his thumbs glide over his abdomen beneath the shirt. “ _Oh_.”

His grip tightens on that hushed exclamation, and Bohn gasps as he’s worked down, Duen jerking up into him until Bohn keens on a high and heady note. “ _F-fuck_!” he whines, getting a hand behind him to find purchase on one of Duen’s knees, his back arching. It’s too sudden for him not to give in to it regardless of how well he’s been holding out. Stars dance behind Bohn’s eyelids as he comes, choking on a helpless little noise when Duen rolls them despite how he’s still shuddering apart. The heat in his belly coils tight, tighter, unraveling in a breathless rush while Duen drags his legs up around his waist and fucks him through it. Hot kisses as pressed to his jaw, the taut line of his throat as he mewls around a broken, overstimulated sound, and Duen digs his teeth into the soft space above his collarbones as he presses and grinds against him until he gets his knot inside.

Bohn scrabbles at his shoulders, all but bowing off the bed. He’s still shaking with aftershocks when Duen gets a hand between them, electrified and sensitive. “Oh, _don’t-_ ” Bohn whimpers, panting as expert fingers work him towards climax again in a matter of seconds. It’s not much of a protest, and Duen merely pauses with a raised eyebrow, knowing full well that Bohn doesn’t mean it. And after a heartbeat Bohn nods, biting down on his lip to try and muffle a shout as Duen easily tips him over into fiery ecstasy again. It’s a lot, just another wave and wash of heat too close to the heels of the first, and Bohn’s vision swims and darkens for a moment before he comes back to himself, boneless and breathing harshly. 

Duen is mouthing at the hollow of his throat, alternating between heavy bites and lingering kisses. His grip on Bohn’s thighs is unrelenting, and Bohn has just enough presence of mind to register that telltale catch and gasp of a groan as he comes inside him. He threads his fingers into Duen’s hair as his forehead thunks down against his sternum, his gaze fixed on the ceiling while he wills the room to stop spinning. “Holy _shit_ ,” he manages after a minute or two, a smile curving in the corners of his mouth. “What got into you?”

“Sorry,” Duen whispers, but the twinge of amusement in his tone gives away that the apology is mostly just for show. “Are you okay?”

Bohn snorts and curls his arms around his shoulders to draw him a little closer, “Fine. Are _you_ okay?”

Duen nods against his chest, and Bohn can’t help the pleased purr that thrums in him at that. He squirms a bit when Duen drops his grip on his thighs in favor of skimming his fingers over his sides, trying his hardest to remain plaint even though he’s still extremely oversensitive while they’re tied together. When Duen’s palms settle around his hips again, his thumbs stroking up his abdomen, Bohn cracks his eyes open to watch him. He takes in the way his lips part, the flare of his nostrils, the shadow of his pupils contracting, and realizes with a hitch of his own breath what Duen has fixated on before he says it. “ _Bohn_ ,” he says, his tone so awed that it makes Bohn’s heart race, “you’re _showing._ ”

Yeah, he figured as much. Still, he offers up one of his own hands, lets Duen guide his fingers down to trace the faint outline of a curve over his abdomen. Duen’s fingers tangle with his as he does it and he leans down to rub his cheek over Bohn’s, nuzzling into his neck and up under his jaw with a sound that’s torn between a possessive growl and a low but elated purr. “Phi,” he hums, the affection laced with approval, and Bohn shivers in the wake of it. There’s not even a follow up to the utterance, and Duen is content with just repeating it, nosing at his cheek, his throat, nipping over his favorite spot under his jaw as he repeats it like a mantra. “Phi. _Phi_.”

His delight is addicting, and Bohn is nothing if not eager for attention. He melts into every gloriously happy little devoted murmur across his skin, lulled by the comfort of their scents mixing together in the air. His entire body feels loose and warm by the time Duen is able to pull out, and he can’t help but whine in protest when Duen leaves the bed to get a washcloth to clean him up with. He’s a bit nonplussed as his underwear is tugged back on after, and his pajama pants over that, but he lets Duen do it regardless, curling into him with a huff as soon as he settles in at his side. “You have a fetish,” he mumbles blearily when Duen’s hands roam up under his shirt again once they’re tucked beneath the covers together. The statement goes uncontested save for a brief, slightly annoyed snort over his shoulder. Bohn smirks, his breathing evening into the cadence of sleep while Duen continues to gently bite and kiss at what exposed skin he can reach, claiming him all over again in the quiet depths of midnight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 3 is coming very soon! It's mostly complete and just needs a few more scenes and some minor edits.
> 
> Comments are always super appreciated! I enjoy them immensely even if I don't always have the time to respond.
> 
> Also if you livetweet while reading you should totally @ me because I love reading reactions when I find them. That's kinda my new favorite thing lol.


	3. Beginning Anew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somehow, apprehensions and unease aside, Bohn still didn’t expect it to be this hard.
> 
> But Duen is here. Duen is here. And Bohn doesn't know what he would have done without him. 
> 
> “I’ve got you,” Duen assures, low, steady. “You’re doing so good. Come on, Bohn. I’ve got you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you if you've stayed with this story this far. It means a lot to me.

Now that he’s actually starting to be visibly pregnant, Duen’s over-possessive need to scent him only amps up in its ferver. Bohn chalks part of it up to the fact that they’re also in a new house though, especially because a lot of Duen’s day when he’s not in class or at work is spent relentlessly prowling the entire place. Not that Bohn is much better. But he’s not as intent about it, and tends to focus on the areas he needs to feel like home sooner rather than later. While Ben’s at school he paces the length of his room at least once an hour and rubs his cheeks on the pillows and blankets, annoyed when it doesn’t always stick as deeply as he’d like. He does the same to the future nursery, circling it from the door to the windows and back for several long minutes, zoned out in his resolve until he snaps out of it enough to realize how much time he’s spent doing it. 

Duen though, Duen stalks around the entire house and the perimeter of the yard for over an hour as soon as he gets home, tense and focused until he seems satisfied with what progress he’s made. Bohn’s glad that Tingting has already settled into a habit of coming back with him after their shifts together, because as soon as Duen is done relentlessly prowling the house he drags Bohn off to their bedroom. Bohn doesn’t fight it, wouldn’t want to even if he was sure he could. His only concern is that Ben is looked after, and Tingting has that under control. So he goes willingly, utterly pliant when Duen lays him out on the bed and crawls over him. 

It’s similar to how Duen would sometimes mark him before his heat, slow and drawn out, almost non-sexual despite the press of their bodies together. Sure, it does get Bohn a little worked up, especially when Duen nuzzles at the insides of thighs, but it’s not enough for either of them to need to do something about it. Mostly it’s just soothing, and Bohn isn’t above admitting he enjoys every second. It’s a different kind of pleasure than sex, content and calm and intrinsic. Duen is attentive to every little hitch of his breath, each murmur and whine that escapes his lungs. It’s overwhelming, but in a good way, an utterly instinctive way that Bohn quickly recognizes is something he _needs_. He’s loose and satiated throughout, every other exhale a low purr even when Duen’s teeth bite into his skin. 

There are spots that have been especially favored in that manner, places where extra attention is paid. Semi-permanent marks have bloomed under his jaw, over the small of his back, along his collarbones, and across his inner thighs. Duen’s started on another one just above the inside of his right wrist in the last few days, too, worrying at it with light nips and licks until he seems pleased with his work. Faintly, Bohn wishes he'd gotten better scores in his grade school biology classes so he could parse out the more intimate details of this, but on the other hand he’s pretty sure he has the jist of it down.

He mulls it over in the back of his mind now and then, usually when Duen pulls him up to rest his head on his shoulder, soft affections murmured over the shell of his ear as Bohn takes time to come back to himself. It’s just a more intense version of Duen’s pre-heat claims, a staking of what is considered his, and Bohn is more than happy to revel in it even while he’s dazed and overwhelmed. He sighs against Duen’s shoulder when the lull of it starts to ease off, nuzzling into his neck with a contented hum. “I would never let anyone else do this to me, you know,” he mumbles once, thrilled by the growl Duen echoes over that declaration. It’s true though, and he knows Duen is already well aware of that. The trust in being scented into submissiveness is implicit, and the fact that Bohn not only allows it, but does so eagerly, speaks volumes. 

At exactly eighteen weeks, Bohn’s instincts start to creep up into the peripherals of his senses. He doesn’t really notice it immediately, especially not with how Duen’s are still in full stride. He quits eating three large meals a day in favor of five or six smaller ones that ultimately probably amount to more than his usual intake, and when Duen and Ben (and whichever of their friends that have started hanging around) are having their food, he spends long minutes sizing up everything they have in the fridge and the pantry. Boss calls him out on that one first, amused as he asks, “Preparing for winter?” and snickering into his hands when Bohn levels him with an icy glare.

Ben gets wrangled every other day after he gets home from school, complaining and exasperated as Bohn takes a few minutes to rub his cheek over the top of his head before he lets him go, always a little dissatisfied with the results. If it were up to him Ben wouldn’t be leaving the house at all right now, but he’s able to quickly squash that absolute stupidity down almost the second he thinks it, annoyed by his own rising territorialness even as he recognizes the source. To combat it he finds himself seeking out Duen to be scented whenever it threatens to be too much, relieved to give in to that careful attention until he’s blissed out and soothed.

At just under five months he starts stealing stuff for the nest. He ignores Duen’s exasperated protests when he takes the sheets and blankets from their bed so many times they actually have to purchase more, and is indifferent to Ben giving him a hard side-eye when he snags one of his comforters from the top bunk. Duen pretty much follows him through the house when he slips into that mode, trailing after him with his usual mixture of annoyance and fondness. He tries to draw the line at the couch cushions, and Bohn lets him think he has. For now. He doesn’t technically need all of it for awhile yet, so he’s alright with letting Duen assume he’s won that one for a few more weeks at least.

Things go to absolute hell though on Ben’s birthday. Bohn’s already a little too on edge, discomforted by the number of people over even though he was the one that invited them. It’s one of those things that seems like a good idea at a distance, and turns out to be terrible in hindsight. He ends up esconsing himself off in a corner of the back patio, squished on the wicker outdoor sofa with Boss and Frong on either side of him. 

“I hate that I’m okay with this,” Frong mutters into his lemonade, one of his hands tapping out regular, almost tranquilizing beats over Bohn’s spine. “And I thoroughly plan to distance myself from your hormonal ass the second you’re normal again.”

Bohn ignores him, draping himself over his side further with a dismissive huff as Boss leans his weight against his back. Frong is all talk and no show, he’s not even remotely threatened by such claims. 

“You don't think it’s nice?” Boss asks at his shoulder, twisting so he can look Frong in the eye. Frong snorts. “I like it,” Boss continues, undeterred. “It means we’re good friends that we want to help.” And then, because Boss is in fact an asshole in his own right, he adds, toothily smug, “Also you could totally resist it if you really wanted to.”

Bohn knows Frong is glaring, but he doesn’t care. He merely tucks himself up under his arm further, mumbling out a muted apology he doesn’t really mean. If having other omegas and omega-leaning betas around when he’s wound up settles him down, he has no protests. 

He makes it through most of the party just like that, tended to by the alternating attentions of Boss, Frong, Tingting, and occasionally Duen when he can spare time away from playing the gracious host and sous-chef. He checks in on Bohn intermittently, noting his discomfort with worried sighs that are smoothed over mostly by Boss, who never leaves his side. “I promise you he’s fine,” Boss assures for what’s probably the dozenth time that afternoon. “It’s usually like this by now. He’ll feel better once there’s less people, but he can handle it.”

When Bohn peeks at him from where he’s curled in Tingting’s lap though Duen looks extremely unsettled. “He smells stressed,” he says thickly. “I can clear everyone out early if we have to.”

Boss lays a hand on his shoulder, and Bohn reluctantly diverts enough of his conscious attention away from the soothing muddle of being wrapped up between them to say, “I’m okay.” 

And he is. He is okay, even if he is a little stressed out. It’s not Duen’s fault, and Bohn knows that it’s not his own either. It’s inevitable that some of his instincts get the better of him, especially now that they’re well past the hurdle of the first trimester. Overall, he thinks he’s actually handling it pretty well. His main concern is that Ben might think he’s being a bit of a party pooper, but Bohn has set aside his gift for him to be given privately later to make up for it. Plus, when he glances over at the swing set Ben doesn’t seem too bothered, and is absorbed in playing with Daonua and two other friends from school he’s invited to the festivities.

God, Bohn can’t even believe he’s ten now. Double digits. The big one zero. It makes him feel a little bit old himself, and he mumbles a hasty apology to Duen before snuggling back into Tingting’s lap, focusing on the lull of her hands threading through his hair and the rumble of Boss’ chest at his back when he purrs.

He’s half asleep when it hits him. The smell reaches his senses first, the sharp copper tang making his eyes snap open a split second before he hears Ben’s unmistakable, startled wail of pain. Bohn sits bolt upright, heedless of Boss yelping as he dislodges him. His gaze darts around the yard, zeroing in on the source in an instant. Ben is sitting on the ground a few feet from the swings, one of his knees pulled up to his chest, dripping and red, and Thara is crouched in front of him.

Bohn lunges off the wicker sofa before he can think better of it, teeth bared and a gutteral snarl ripping out of his throat. Thara turns towards him, wide-eyed, and Bohn’s vision tunnels. Another alpha. With _his_ child. Blood. There’s _blood_. Another alpha has _hurt his child_. He almost manages to get his hands on him, but someone snags a solid hold around his middle and drags him down to the ground thrashing and growling. 

From scent alone Bohn recognizes that it’s Boss, and he knows instantly that he’s more than capable of breaking that grip. He snaps and struggles, ignoring the sounds of shouting. Ben is _hurt_. Ben is _bleeding_. There is an alpha in his territory that is _not Duen_ , and Bohn is going to _kill him_. Someone else grabs him by the arms, pins him down, and Bohn registers Tingting's presence because of the long nails that dig into the nape of his neck. Distantly, he hears Duen yelling, horrified cries of, “Oh my god! No! _No_! Don’t hurt him! _Don’t hurt him_!” that Bohn slowly realizes are meant for him, and not Thara. 

He can’t comprehend why Duen is worried for him, but his rising panic only sparks Bohn’s own desperation further. The scent of Duen’s fear is mixing with that of the blood, and Bohn’s breath catches harshly in his throat around a distraught, visceral sound. For some reason it’s that that makes Thara move, scrambling to his feet and away to put a hand to Duen’s chest to push him back as he tries to take a step towards where Bohn is clawing at the grass. When Bohn’s eyes shift to them his fury only rises. Duen should be helping him. Thara is _keeping Duen away from him_. 

Duen is shaking, his eyes wide, and Bohn has one glorious moment of relief as he finally manages to sidestep Thara and reach for him, but then Ram and King are grabbing him and dragging him back, too. Duen kicks out against the hold immediately, spitting out a desperate, rising plea of, “No! _No_! You have to _let me_ -”

“Take him around the other side of the house,” Boss grunts from somewhere at Bohn’s back. “Frong, clear out the guests. We have to let him go before he hurts himself.”

Bohn’s pretty dead set on forcing them to let him go well before that, and a wounded noise escapes him as he watches them haul Duen off in the opposite direction. His child is _hurt_. They’ve _separated_ him from his _mate_. He doesn’t know what to do anymore, overtaken with increasing, frantic terror. There’s dirt under his nails, and the sting of copper in his nose is mulled over with Duen’s lingering fear. _He doesn’t know what to do_. 

Bohn can’t help the strangled, hoarse whine that falls from his lips, and finally, _finally_ they let him go. He surges forwards without pause as soon as he’s free, scooping a white-faced Ben up into his arms and bundling him back towards the empty house. Pausing in the doorway, his chest heaving, Bohn spares a glance behind him. Tingting and Boss are still kneeling in the grass where they’d held him down, watching him warily. Bohn doesn’t gift them the luxury of a growl, just stares at them for a long, silent moment. They’re not a threat. He closes the silding glass door behind him, but consciously doesn’t lock it. 

Ben is shaking in his arms, and when Bohn tries to set him down on the bathroom counter he just clings to him tighter. Scared, Bohn recognizes through the haze of his own fury and fear. Ben is scared. Probably of him. Shit.

“Luuk,” he soothes, and his voice sounds raw even to his own ears. “It’s alright. Let me see your knee.”

Reluctantly, Ben releases him, and Bohn crouches down to study the wound. It’s a nasty scrape, but nothing a home first aid kit can’t mend. He spends a minute fishing it out from under the sink, the only sound in the room Ben’s unsteady breathing that almost matches his beat for beat. “I fell,” he whispers eventually while Bohn’s carefully cleaning his knee with a wet washcloth and antiseptic. There’s too much blood for his liking, and the smell of it burns his nose whenever he inhales too deeply. “P’Thara was just trying to help me up.”

Bohn knows that now, is well aware of it with the vague hindsight of not being trapped in that horrible, instinctually terrified moment. He doesn’t say that though, and instead settles for a quiet, subdued hum of acknowledgement. There’s nothing he can really explain right now that Ben will understand, especially not when Bohn can’t quite grasp it himself. It’s all a blur, a muddle of high strung emotions and unrestrained instincts. He can tell Ben senses that though, can at least smell it. Their mixed unease lingers in the air of the bathroom even as Bohn steadies his breathing enough to tend to him. His hands tremble as peels open the packaging of a gauze pad, and he bites down hard on his lower lip to maintain his clarity when Ben flinches back as he tries to apply it to the scrape. It’s just a scrape, Bohn reminds himself. Kids get scuffed up like this all the time. _It’s just a scrape_.

Ben was hurt in his own home, his own territory they’re still trying to establish as theirs. He’d been hurt on Bohn’s watch. The size and seriousness of the wound doesn’t matter when it comes down to it. What does is that Bohn has _failed him_. It’s that thought that sticks to the forefront of his mind and twists harshly there as he tapes up the gauze over Ben’s knee. He’d failed. How can he bring another baby into the world if he can’t even take care of this one? He’d failed. He has to do better. _He has to_.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he’s aware that he’s working himself up again, that he’s overreacting, but he can’t stop. Ben is hurt. He doesn’t know where Duen is. Settling into what comes naturally, intrinsically, is painfully easy and almost soothing in contrast. The scent of blood is still awash in his senses, a lingering reminder of all he has to lose if he doesn’t do everything he can to protect it. 

He rises again, hands braced on the counter on either side of Ben as he studies his handiwork. Small pinpricks of red are starting to show through the gauze, but it seems sufficient enough for now. His gaze is fixated on that when Ben moves, and for a long moment Bohn doesn’t register his son’s arms wrapping around his neck from where he’s sitting at eye level. 

Bohn freezes, startled by the action until Ben whispers a quiet, “I’m okay, dad,” into his shoulder.

It’s only Ben’s weight on him that keeps him standing there beside the counter, leaves him on his feet despite how his knees threaten to buckle. Ben called him . . . That’s the first time he’s ever . . .

If Bohn cries, the only person around to see is his own son, and he doesn't say anything about it. He doesn't protest either when Bohn carries him into the nursery instead of his own room, stays silent when Bohn bundles him up into one of the blankets and curls around him like he means to shield him from the world. He's ten now, but still just small enough to hold, and Bohn buries his face in the blanket cocooning him, murmuring quiet promises around hitching breaths that border on sobs. Ben falls asleep within minutes, clearly exhausted by the brief ordeal, but Bohn lies viciously awake, his veins still singing with adrenaline as he rests his head on Ben's side. His head is pounding, and he feels overheated, overwrought. There’s a deep, fraught ache settling into his bones, but he fights against it to keep his eyes open, to stay aware. Ben is hurt. Duen isn’t here. He has to protect him.

He's awake to see Duen crack the door open awhile later, but not with it enough to suppress the growl that rumbles through him. What is wrong with him? It's not Duen’s fault, he knows that. It's no one's fault. _He knows that_.

But there had been an alpha that wasn't his in his territory, an alpha that had hurt-

Bohn shakes his head, whining as he tries to get ahold of himself. Ben had fallen. No one had hurt him.

There had been another alpha. Duen hadn’t helped him. Duen had let himself be restrained in their own territory. Part of him desperately, desperately needs Duen at his side, but still his lip curls back, another low growl vibrating in his chest when they make eye contact across the room. Ben is hurt. Duen had not helped. But Bohn _needs him_ and he _can’t_ -

He doesn’t know what to do, gripped too tight by his own, deep-seated reactions to fight them. 

He watches, pained and miserable as Duen's eyes widen and he eases the door shut again in the wake of a third unrestrained growl that escapes Bohn.

Fuck. _Fuck_. He’d scolded Duen for almost this exact sort of unfiltered instinct months ago, yelled at him for letting his over-protectiveness cloud his judgement, and now he can't get his wits about him enough to control it himself. Shouldn't he be better than this?

There's whispering beyond the door, low and rushed, and Bohn strains his ears to catch the words of it. "It's the blood," he hears Boss say. "It'll be harder to get him to calm down as long as he can still smell the blood. He's _scared_."

Bohn's not quite sure that's entirely correct. He doesn't feel scared, not in the way he had before. But everything also feels dulled, distant. Even the sounds of Ben’s slow, sleep-evened breathing seem far away, register only faintly in the back of his mind. It’s almost as if he’s not even a part of his own body anymore, disconnected from it save for the continued, basic instinct to stay where it’s safe. He catalogues every little sound and smell and movement, hyper aware in that aspect alone. Stay where it’s safe. Safe for Ben. Safe for him. Safe for the baby. 

It's quiet for a bit after that, the whispers too hushed for him to catch in full. He hates the sound of Duen's voice though, the obvious unease that borders on actual fear in every note of it. He doesn't have enough wherewithal to untangle why at the moment, can't process what Duen is afraid of. Bohn has Ben right here, tucked away with him in the nest. Everything is fine. 

He watches with hyper attentiveness when Boss finally creeps into the room. Duen is nowhere to be seen, and Bohn only musters up a pull of his lips back from his teeth when Boss kneels at the side of the nest. Smaller than him, omega-leaning beta, tough, but in words more than action. Not a threat, Bohn decides, though he still tightens his grip around Ben as he thinks it. 

"He'll wake up soon," Boss points out, and Bohn narrows his eyes at him before he's even finished speaking, tensing up. "He should eat dinner, don't you think?"

After a moment of consideration in the lengthening shadows of the room, Bohn slowly, slowly eases back. It's an effort in and of itself to let go of Ben, every millisecond a struggle against himself. Boss is probably right, he needs to get away from the smell of the blood, even if the main source of that right now is Ben.

The moment his hand leaves Ben entirely though strong arms scoop him up under his legs and around his chest. Bohn thrashes immediately, every barely kept-at-bay bit of terror bubbling right back to the surface all over again. They're taking him away from his child, his child is _hurt_. 

Bohn is _livid_.

He claws at his captor, ignoring the startled shouts and the hiss of pain as he manages to get a grip on him good enough to sink his teeth into the first bit of exposed flesh he finds. But the hold on him doesn't relent, and Bohn growls, struggles, tears stinging his eyes as he's carried out of the nursery. No, _no_ , **_no_**. He needs to stay in there, where it's safe for him, for Ben, for the baby, and-

Cold water hits him like a ton of bricks, making him gasp and release his deadlock bite. Blood oozes up from where his teeth had been, and he stares at it for a moment, stunned as it drips down to seep into the collar of Duen's shirt. _Duen_. It's _Duen_ , he just bit his own . . .

"It's alright," Duen soothes, his voice barely rising under the continued icy onslaught of the shower. "It'll heal." He kneels down in the tub under the spray, Bohn still clutched tightly to him like he thinks he might continue to try and fight his way out of his grip. But Bohn just goes limp against him, shivering and horrified. 

He doesn't make a sound as Duen painstakingly peels off his clothes, barely acknowledges the sight of the grass stains and faint dottings of blood on every garment. There's a darker crimson splotch on his jeans, probably from when he'd carried Ben inside, and Bohn stares at it as Duen pries the soaked fabric off of his skin. He's shivering with cold by the time Duen twists the faucet the other way, shuddering violently until the warmed water starts running in steady rivlets over his body. Where their clothes end up he's not sure, though later he thinks he remembers Tingting coming in to collect them from the puddled heap outside the tub. He slumps over Duen's shoulder as he's scrubbed carefully clean, pliant now in necessity as he tries to process the last hour or so. It's mostly a blur, and every time he thinks too hard about everything but that calmer moment on the bathroom counter his heart jackrabbits in his chest all over again. 

Every time it does Duen stops, adjusts the pressure or the heat of the water, and chases the renewed trembles back out of Bohn's frame with patient, kneading touches. "It's alright," he whispers again, even though Bohn can hear how scared he is, too. His voice is hoarse, cracking around every other syllable, and Bohn whimpers at the sound of it, nuzzling into Duen's neck. He has no platitudes of his own to offer though. Not yet. 

When the water is turned off he manages to get his legs under him enough to stand while Duen towels him dry, though he suspects it's still a struggle considering the iron hold of his arms around his boyfriend's shoulders. Someone brings them clean clothes (Frong, maybe? Bohn doesn't know), and he lets himself be manhandled into them, subdued until Duen hoists him up into his arms again.

"M'too heavy," he mumbles in protest, keenly aware that he's definitely gained weight, but Duen only tightens his grip and maybe his resolve as he walks them back to the nursery.

The sheets have been changed, Bohn notes with extreme distaste, and he must tense up or something because Duen is murmuring swift apologies against his ear as he kneels to settle him into the nest of blankets. Some of those have been removed and traded out, too. "I know. I'm sorry," he whispers. "But we couldn't take the chance there was any blood on them. You can fix it later."

There is blood here, though, Bohn recognizes with a guilty twist in his gut. Unsteady fingers find the collar of Duen's shirt and he tugs it aside to view the deep puncture he'd left, still fresh enough to see every individual cut of it despite the shower having washed the gore clean. The skin around it is purpling and bruised too, and Bohn buries his head against Duen's chest with a strangled, injured noise. “I didn’t mean to,” he gasps, shuddering on a wash of self-loathing that almost makes him retch. He’s _never_ hurt Duen like that. And even when Duen had bitten him in the past it had always been consensual, something Bohn wanted. Never deep and jagged like this. He’d lashed out at Duen entirely with the intent to harm. Sick dismay roils inside him and wells tears in his eyes to spill down his cheeks. “ _I didn’t mean to_.”

“I know, phi,” Duen murmurs, pressing a kiss to his hair. “I know. It’s alright.” And then, because Duen has always been too good for him, too kind, he asks, “Will you let me scent you? Your heart is still racing.”

As if he needs permission. Bohn nods anyways though, clinging to Duen’s shirt as he’s tipped carefully back over onto the mattress. It’s a numb sort of feeling that’s engulfed him now, and he watches Duen’s progress over him with distant eyes. As always he’s easily pliant, but he can’t help but fight against the instinctive satiation that comes with the act, still wound a bit too tight to give in immediately. Duen pauses as soon as he notices it, abandons where he’s been rubbing his cheek over Bohn’s thighs to climb back up over him. “Will you be uncomfortable if I roll you over?” he asks softly. Bohn shakes his head.

He heaves out a sigh when Duen rearranges him, presses him down onto the mattress on his stomach instead. This time when his partner traces a path down his body he adds his weight to it, lays out across him wherever his hands aren’t already busy. Eventually he settles a palm more permanently across Bohn’s abdomen, fingers splayed out as he trails gentle bites along Bohn’s spine through his clothes, each dig of his teeth followed by a stroke of his cheek over the spot, heavy and heady. 

It works. Slow, long minutes tick by and fold into an hour until Bohn blinks through the building haze to realize how much time has passed. He can’t feel the unrestrained thunder of his heart behind his ribs anymore, and the dull pounding of his head has eased enough for him to think with better clarity. His fingers flex in the sheets every time Duen nuzzles at him, his breath steadying into drawn out, even inhales and exhales. 

“I’m sorry,” Duen murmurs over the back of his neck at some point, the apology punctuated with a moment spent nosing under Bohn’s jaw until he acknowledges it with a faint hum. “I should have broken up the party sooner. I saw you were stressed out, and I didn’t-”

“S’okay,” Bohn slurs. He reaches over to tug a pillow to him, resting his chin on it as he turns to try and catch Duen’s eyes over his shoulder. It’s past sunset now, the cool violet light filtering through the windows just enough left to see by. “How could you have known?"

Bohn should have known, though. Then again, the last time he lost it this bad he was too drunk to remember much.

"P'Boss said something like this happened a few years ago," Duen prompts quietly, as if reading his mind. Sometimes, Bohn wonders if they know each other too well. 

Bohn isn't sure how to respond to that. What good does it do to rehash old wounds? This, Bohn suspects, might just be another thing he will never quite shake. It's too deeply embedded in him now, another aged and visceral hurt that rears its ugly head when he's too vulnerable to fight it. The too-white walls of a hospital room, the scent of blood, they're the same. They claw at a singular bit of agony in him, and he knows no amount of talking about it will ever make it better. There is no balm for a threat that had once been very, very real. 

Rationally he knows it's no longer a possibility. He has control of his own life now, his home, his family. But still, an ever grieving part of him remembers the deep and torturous ache of separation. 

"I'm sorry," Bohn whispers, at first for lack of anything else to offer, and then simply because he really is. 

There are better people in the world than him. Softer, kinder, whole. And Bohn can only ever offer what he already is. Duen deserves more, he knows. But Bohn will never be selfless enough to tell him that. In this one regard he will always be greedy, will take too much, and only have the broken pieces of himself to give back in return. 

Ben had been just two days old when he'd been handed over to a nursemaid, and Bohn recognizes in the same way he knows his own name that that specific agony will never leave him. The scar is too deep, moreso even than the one on his skin. He can't be more after that, not in the ways that Duen deserves. There will always, _always_ be a part of him missing. 

Duen's weight leaves his back, and Bohn buries his face into the pillow as his boyfriend tucks up against his side instead, their legs tangling together. Careful fingers card up through his hair above his ear and he can't help but lean into the touch. “Why do you always apologize for stuff that’s not your fault?” Duen asks softly.

Bohn twists a little to stare at him, his eyebrows furrowing. “Uh. I’m pretty sure it is my fault. Did you miss the part where I tried to _attack_ Thara?”

“Bohn,” Duen murmurs, “That’s not- you _know_ that’s not your fault, don’t you? You were scared.”

“I was scared because of a _mistake_ **_I_ ** _made_ ,” Bohn reminds darkly.

He watches Duen’s mouth curl downwards, and the arm he’s draped over Bohn’s back tightens. “Please don’t say that. I know I’ve told you this before, but it’s not . . . I know you don’t mean that, phi.”

Bohn tilts his head away from him again, fixes his gaze out towards the wide windows. The sun has set now, the cool evening twilight leaving the room bathed in dusky shadows. Ultimately, he’s made his scars with his own hands, regardless of whether or not Duen wants to acknowledge that. And now he’s done it twice. How bitter will it taste, he wonders, when he has to tell this baby too that they’d been unplanned? That, perhaps, they will have two parents who hadn’t been ready rather than one?

He’s quiet for too long, because after a few minutes without a response Duen growls out a low, almost pained sound. Bohn accommodates him with easy submission as he noses up along his neck, drags his teeth across the softest part of his throat and presses insistent, heavy kisses over his cheek. “Bohn, _no_ ,” he whispers, hoarse and aghast. They really do know each other too well, but Bohn can’t bring himself to hate that, especially now. “They’re not mistakes. They’re happy accidents.”

He’s persistent with every touch, every hot breath ghosted over Bohn’s skin where he kisses him, and Bohn half wonders if he means to plaster over all the jagged cracks in his soul with such affections. Happy accidents, huh? He can’t contest that, not when it sinks into him how true it is.

At fourteen he’d been terrified, furious at the people that had weighed him down with such harsh words that he'd been desperate find solace in the first place he could. Perhaps the steps leading up to it had been a mistake, and there will always be regrets from that first heat that will never be anything but. The result though . . . The result is worth more than Bohn can ever quantify. 

Once, he’d sought out the comfort of a warm embrace, an unshakable devotion.

The path there had been so much harder, more arduous, than he’d ever thought it would be. But he has it now, doesn’t he. Ten years later, he has it. He’s wrapped up in the security of Duen’s arms around him, soothed by the carefully stoked mixture of their scents in the air, punchdrunk and full with the prospect of a future he doesn’t have to handle alone. Even if it was a series of missteps that lead him here, the truth, he realizes, is that his life is also scattered with bright and happy accidents.

Bohn hides his face away in the pillow again, his cheeks flushed as Duen shifts closer in return and nibbles at the crest of his ear. He stays quiet for another minute, rolls what he wants to say over in his mind for awhile before he settles on simply being as he’s always been. Afterall, Duen had fallen for him knowing exactly what kind of person he is. “We’re planning the next one,” Bohn mumbles into the plush cushioning, smirking slightly when Duen whuffs out a laugh against his neck. 

“Eager,” he chides fondly, and Bohn turns over to properly snuggle up against him, a low purr rumbling in his chest in tired wakes. “Maybe you should decide that after it’s all over.”

“Mm,” Bohn hums, all faux consideration and no real regard. He’s not unsurprised when that near null response earns him an exasperated huff. 

“I don’t know why I bothered saying that,” Duen mutters, his tone ever laced with unabashed tenderness despite the wording he uses. “You’ve been hopped up on oxytocin practically since the moment we met. And that’s not even taking into account the way endorphins play into labor and turn the pain afterwards into euphoria so-”

“Aw yeah,” Bohn interrupts, utterly monotone, “I love it when you talk dirty like that to me, doctor.”

Duen rewards his sass with a moment of silence in which Bohn assumes he’s rolling his eyes, and then a teasing dig of his teeth into the nearest patch of skin that only serves to elicit a pleased and perfect noise of ardor from Bohn’s lungs.

~~~***~~~

Despite how Frong is calmly making breakfast in his kitchen, Bohn immediately knows that he's pissed at him. It's in the slightly stiff set of his shoulders, the way he keeps his back turned even though Bohn knows he hears him enter. Also the spatula he's using to flip the omelette scrapes gratingly on the bottom of the pan when Bohn tries to step a little closer. So yeah, he's pretty mad. And Bohn really can't blame him. 

He doesn't know what to say, though, what apologies he can offer. To describe his and Frong's relationship as something that has been fairly fraught is a basic summary at best. Bohn suspects it will always be a little rocky, if only because they're too similar. But that was before he openly and brazenly tried to attack Frong's boyfriend. 

The fact that he's already called Thara and made amends in that regard holds no weight here. He's painfully aware of how much trust actually lays beneath the surface of how he and Frong publically regard each other. Frong wouldn't be compelled to be hanging around him right now otherwise, and he certainly wouldn't have given in to that instinct if he felt even a single modicum of real hostility towards him.

So yeah, Bohn has fucked up. He's fucked up _bad_. 

Frong doesn't look at him when Bohn slides into one of the chairs at the table, though the slight tilt of his head is its own form of acknowledgement. Bohn still doesn't know what to say though, and resigns himself to selfishly waiting out the silence.

Eventually Frong turns off the burner, plates two omelettes, and sets them down on the table. He doesn't sit though, and the dishes clatter when they hit the wood, giving away how uneasy the atmosphere really is.

"You know what you did, right?" Frong asks coldly.

The hushed way the question comes out makes Bohn flinch, and he stares down at the food placed in front of him, too vaguely nauseous to even pretend to eat. "I'm sorry," he tries, already knowing full well that's not going to cut it.

Frong lifts an eyebrow and braces a hand on the table, leaning against it. "Okay. But are you though? You didn't answer my question. Do you even know how wildly you overstepped?"

Bohn twists his head away, fixes his gaze on the wall, his shoulders hunching. He knows.

It's one thing to attack an alpha. It's entirely another to do it in the presence of their mate, especially a fellow omega. 

"You don't respect me," Frong says, and Bohn slumps.

"No, I-"

"You don't trust me."

" _Frong_ -"

Frong slaps his palm down on the table, ratting the plates, and Bohn falls silent. "Do you know why I didn't try and stop you? Why Boss and Tingting had to do it even though I'm obviously the only one who would be close to an even match for you in a fight? Because you _scared the shit out of me_ , you fucking asshole! You're- how could you _do that_?!" Frong's face is red, his eyes narrowed with a specific kind of agony Bohn recognizes way too well. "Thara says I should leave well enough alone, that a trauma response often overrides the intrinsic deference between close omegas. But you fucking-"

He cuts himself off, and Bohn watches with muted horror as visible tears well up in the corners of Frong's eyes. "You almost made me have to choose been my mate and _my best fucking friend_ **_and his baby_**! How could you do that to me?!"

Oh. Well that's . . . That's news. Bohn sits there for a second, two, three, too stunned to say or do anything for a long and tense moment. Frong doesn't seem to notice though, is too busy fisting his hands in his hair with a frustrated, heaving breath. It doesn't escape Bohn how serious everything could have been, far from it actually. Half of his inability to say or do something now is because of how caught off guard he is by the declaration, and the other half is frozen in horrified silence as it truly sinks in how close Frong must have been to having to make a potentially devastating decision. 

Bohn rises from his seat before he can talk himself out of it, can let his personality win out over what he knows is the right thing to do, and uses the side of the chair for balance as he sinks down to the floor on his knees, his head bowed.

"Oh for- _don't,_ " Frong says in a sharp inhale. "Don't you fucking dare submit to me. I _hate_ that."

Bohn considers this with a frown, and then, unable to fully suppress his assholery, tilts his head just enough to the side to show his throat unguarded.

Frong makes a low noise that's torn between dismay and genuine anger. "No. _No_. Do _not_ do that shit. You know I hate that old-world pack politics crap, _Bohn_ -"

Shrugging, Bohn confesses, "I really don't know how else to get you to believe that yesterday wasn't about trust, or respect, or whatever." He also is absolutely playing it up to be a jerk, but that part doesn't need explaining. This is just how the two of them function. 

A curse escapes Frong's lips, and he whirls away from him on a swiftly muttered string of them, pacing back for a minute before he returns. His hands are clenched at his sides, and every breath he draws in shakes through him. Perhaps, Bohn thinks as he watches him out of the corners of his eyes, his throat still bared, he might have pushed too far for once. "Next time," Frong says tightly through his teeth, "you _tell me_ if you're uncomfortable, if you're stressed close to snapping. You don't brush it off. I don't care if you tell anyone else, but you at least have to tell _me_. Understand? I'm supposed to be helping you. I'm supposed to be _helping you_ , and you almost made me have to _hurt you_. God, fucking- quit that! Stand up, for fuck's sake."

Bohn stands, but lets his eyes remain downcast, biting the inside of his lip to keep from smirking. It's not funny, none of this is, actually. But he can't but toe the line with Frong, always, ever eager to push until he gets pushed back.

Except that this time Frong doesn't push him. Instead, he wraps his arms around his shoulders with another muttered swear. Bohn staggers a little under the extra, unexpected weight, but Frong pulls back just as quickly as he'd embraced him and scrubs a hasty hand over his eyes. "Fuck you, seriously," he chokes out. "Don't ever do that shit to me again."

"I'll do my best," Bohn says. There are no certain promises to make, he knows, not for this. There will never be enough assurances in the world to bandage every scarred up bit of him. He thinks, though, that this is a surer start than most regardless. Frong's earlier words are still ringing in his ears, an unfiltered admission of how deeply he cares about their friendship. Bohn wants to burn that into his brain, score it deep enough, permanently enough in his mind that it'll still be there should he ever lose control again. 

"I suppose 'your best' is still leagues more than most people get from you," Frong sighs, dodging out of the way when Bohn aims a playful swat at him. "Go eat your stupid omlette. I'm sure it's cold by now, but I made it so you have to eat it anyways."

It is cold, but Bohn doesn't complain. He even drinks the disgusting, pulpy orange juice Frong sets out for him. And if he throws half of it up an hour later, well, at least someone is there to rag on him and hand him a cool washcloth after, even if Frong does bitch about it.

~~~***~~~

The whole laying on his side thing starts to get old approximately six seconds after Bohn realizes he's gotten to the point where it's necessary. He's been a chronic back or tummy sleeper, and that's not even mentioning the other aspects of his bedroom affinities that have been severely inconvenienced. So yeah, the world can forgive him if he's annoyed, even if he's well aware it's all his own damn fault. 

The worst part, he quickly decides, is how he's just automatically relegated to little spoon. Not that he hates it exactly, but the spice of life, especially Bohn's, is variety. So to find that he's now lacking it in any aspect of his day to day is immediately frustrating. And on top of that ultimately mild inconvenience, there's also, he realizes, a very stark difference between being spoiled and being _babied_ , and the latter becomes infuriating the instant he starts to recognize it. 

The fact that it all seems to stem from his breakdown on Ben's birthday just makes it that much more aggravating. It's one thing to console his fuckups and upsets with gentle regard, it's entirely another to start pussyfooting around him and treating him like a goddamn child. 

If it were left at the little-spooning he would get over it, but that just ends up being one facet of an entire clusterfuck of grievances piled on by _literally everyone_. For fuck's sake, he's twenty-four. He doesn't need people to make his bed or lay out his clothes or let him pick every single movie they watch without protest or test the heat of the fucking shower before he gets in and then skulk outside the door like a weirdo. Pregnancy has not suddenly deprived him of the use of his arms and legs, even if from certain angles while standing it's become increasingly harder to see said legs. 

"I love you," he says very seriously to Tingting one day while he's doing the super dangerous task of drying the dishes, "but if you don't stop hovering I will actually have a total meltdown." That's just the tiniest bit over dramatic, but not by much. The constant vigilance that's developed around him is exhausting.

It also, unfortunately, makes him feel like something is wrong with him. Bohn isn't blind to his own flaws, far from it, but knowing that they've caused this much concern, this level of collective affect, sucks. It hurts a lot more than he dares to admit, though he's sure some of that probably comes off anyways. He's never been as good as he thinks he is in hiding his feelings, and he doubts he's suddenly perfected that ability now. 

Perhaps if the overcoddling had been limited to a week or so he wouldn't be so downtrodden by it, but when it stretches into a month . . .

They're each terrible about it in their own ways. 

Tingting hovers, consistently too close while Bohn goes about the most innocent of tasks. Bohn is fairly certain at this point that if he actually did manage to spontaneously combust or whatever the fuck she thinks is going to happen, Tingting would be able to materialize a bucket of water out of thin air solely through the power of her unwavering, overbearing concern.

Boss is just a pushover. He asks for Bohn's input on everything from food to movies to what angle he should arrange the coffee table books, and then does exactly what Bohn says without protest. And Bohn's already tested how far he can push that particular absurdity, too. The result was Boss being way too eager to order takeout sushi for him, only to realize after it arrived that Bohn wasn't supposed to be eating that at all. His solution to the situation had been shoving every piece into his own mouth like the world's most panicked hamster. 

Frong at least hasn't really changed how he talks to him, but he acts like the entire house is made of egg shells. He's too careful with everything he does, each movement considered for way too long before he completes it. Bohn gives him a little leeway on that for as long as he can stand, if only because of Frong's own admission of how terrified he'd been at the birthday party. 

At least Duen is mostly normal, or he hasn't escalated his new normal enough for Bohn to read any insult into it. And if he lingers for a bit longer in the mornings before class, leaves more visible marks on the nape of Bohn's neck when he gets home, his arms around Bohn's waist for drawn out, quiet moments . . . Well, Bohn can't fault him for that. 

He shelves the last dish and shakes out the towel he was using before setting it on the counter. When he turns around Tingting is still too close for the menial chore he's just completed, and he raises an eyebrow as she nervously wrings her hands. “Like, how much of a meltdown?” she asks, and Bohn’s stomach drops as he catches the unfiltered worry in her gaze. Okay, yeah, maybe he should have worded that better. He’s just as annoyed with the reaction as he is guilty though, and after a moment the former wins over.

Bohn casts her what he hopes is a truly rueful glare before he stalks off. Fine, if they want him to play the riled up omega, he can totally do that. He’s been putting off finishing the nest anyways.

First order of business is the sofas, he decides after a quick glance around the living room. Duen’s going to be disappointed (as are their semi-permanent houseguests), but Bohn can’t find it in him to actually give more than the smallest semblance of a shit. Unlike before, he now has two entire couches to liberate of their cushions, and he does so with glee, carrying them off one at a time to arrange them how he likes in the nursery. For now most of them end up propped up behind or around the mattress to serve as a sort of makeshift, plush headboard, but Bohn still spends a long while carefully considering the placement of each one.

The bathroom is his next target, and he ignores Tingting’s sigh as he rifles through the shelves stuffed with clean towels, only pulling out the softest, most well used ones and discarding the others. Duen had stocked up on those pretty early, he remembers faintly, ever prepared. Bohn leaves the rest scattered and unfolded on the tile, and after refolding his chosen ones in the closet of the nursery, returns to consider the washrags.

With distant disinterest he registers that Tingting has snuck off a ways to make a phonecall, and he strains his hearing in her direction before he decides he doesn’t actually care. Washrags secured, he descends upon the kitchen. Large plastic bowls, Duen’s best mixing ones, he notes with an odd thrum of glee, and the biggest washbin he can find stuffed in one of the lower cabinets. Those too are carefully stashed away in the closet.

“Please don’t tear apart the pantry,” Tingting whispers somewhere behind him, and Bohn smirks at her over his shoulder before he does exactly that. He’s careful to sort out which snacks will actually still be good in another three months, his eyes roving over both ingredients lists and expiration dates before he squirrels them away on an upper shelf in the nursery closet. 

He should have done this sooner, he thinks as he arranges everything again, moves the pillows around to his newest whims and then goes to raid Duen’s hamper. It’s soothing in its own bizarre way, comforting in how much control he has over everything. Tingting doesn’t interrupt him, just watches with a disquieted frown, and for the most part Bohn is all too happy with that. 

Eventually he wears himself out though, his now more frequent exhaustion creeping up on him while he’s kneading at an old quilt of Duen’s he found stored under their bed. He settles for the shape of it being satisfactory rather than perfect, and starts to sink down into it before he remembers himself and rolls over onto his side with an annoyed huff. 

Regardless of the position, at least it’s easier for him to doze off than it used to be. A few tired blinks is all it seems to take, and the next time he opens his eyes the sun has dipped low enough on the horizon to dance purple shadows across the far wall by the door. Bohn stares at the mottled scatterings of light for a long moment before he shifts his gaze to where Boss is laying next to him, propped up on one arm like he expects DiCaprio himself to materialize and start sketching.

“Feeling better?” Boss asks with a surprising lack of condescension. His gaze is sympathetic, and Bohn reads the open regret within it and turns to bury his face in the pillows with a groan.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he complains. “I’m allowed to be a little mad at you guys.”

Boss shrugs, the movement enough for Bohn to feel by the way it makes the mattress shift. “Yeah. But did you really have to be so dramatic about it?”

Bohn shoots him a withering glare. He can be dramatic about whatever he wants. 

“You made Tingting cry,” Boss says quietly, and Bohn immediately smashes his face back into the pillow with a sigh. 

He still thinks the drama was warranted, but he is at least remorseful enough to admit he didn’t mean for it to have that result. “Sorry,” he mutters, even though he’s very aware that Boss is not the one he should be apologizing to. “You guys were really pissing me off though,” he says lowly, just in case that hadn’t been entirely clear. He tilts his head to the side to catch Boss wincing, and pushes himself to sit up. “Seriously. My . . . Faults aside,” he settles on, reluctant to use Frong’s more medically correct term. Trauma. He knows that’s what it is, but it tastes bitter on his tongue to admit that. Those are the kinds of words he only intends to use between him and Duen, the sole person he will ever confide the extent of it to. “I’ve done this before. Not all of it,” he concedes, “But some of it. I don’t want to be babied, okay? I’m supposed to be _having_ one,” he jokes, mildly relieved when Boss muffles a snort by biting his lip, “I’m not meant to be one. Okay?”

“Right,” Boss agrees easily. “But you know we’re going to be a little worried anyways.”

“Why?” Bohn asks before he can think better of it. He knows why. They’ve grouped around him, afterall. It's natural for them to pick up on his own emotions.

Boss just looks at him for a long moment, his eyebrows furrowing as it dawns on him that Bohn isn’t actually looking for an answer. He’s quiet when he takes Bohn’s hands in his, a small, strained smile wavering on his face as he rubs his thumbs over Bohn’s knuckles. Bohn swallows hard. “You’re allowed to be scared, too,” Boss whispers. “That’s normal, especially considering everything . . . Everything else,” he says, but even that isn’t a thin enough veil for Bohn to overlook.

He hadn’t been enough, last time. Too small, too young. There’s a scar to prove it. “I don’t want to go to the hospital again,” he can’t help but blurt out, thick unease faltering his breath around the words. “I don’t- _what if I can’t do it_?”

What if he’s done all this for nothing? Nested for no reason, only to have all his efforts dashed by something he can’t help. He knows it’s possible, that sometimes the body doesn’t quite heal enough after something like that. Fear coils tightly in his chest at the thought, and he closes his eyes to suck in a slow, staggered inhale to try and slow the rabbit-thrum of his heart. 

Boss squeezes his hands in his, and when Bohn opens his eyes he’s staring at him with quiet, unfaltering intensity. “You’ll be okay. I’m going to make sure of it. That’s what I promised. You won’t need to go anywhere. The baby will be born right here in this room. Alright?”

He sounds so sure. Not a single syllable of what he says breaks, and his grip on Bohn’s hands is steady. So it’s easy, even if Bohn’s heart is still jackrabbiting in his chest, to believe him. Boss’ confidence in himself has always been astounding, but it shines through best when he’s using it like this, to bolster others. Bohn nods rather than risk responding verbally, wary of revealing just how terrified he really is by a hitch in his breath. 

Boss seems to get it regardless, though, and just squeezes his hands tighter. “You’re going to be fine,” he reiterates. “I’ll be here. Duen will be here. Everything is going to be alright. But,” he reminds softly, “you’re allowed to be scared anyways. Just remember that you won’t be doing it alone.”

There are, perhaps, too many people in his life that are a little too good for him, Bohn thinks, overwhelmed with a unique mix of relief and lingering anxiety. Boss doesn’t say anything when he shudders around a sob, stays silent as Bohn lets go of his hands to rub them over his face before the tears can fall. And if all he does is provide quiet, knowing empathy, Bohn is okay with that. It’s almost alleviating to be able to cry, especially now. Perhaps it’s just something he needs. Grief for what he couldn’t accomplish once, apprehension for what he fears he might not be able to do in the future. But Boss isn’t wrong. He’s allowed this. And he’s allowed this specifically because the circumstances are different this time around. 

He won’t be alone, and that simple fact brings with it more comfort than he ever thought it would.

~~~***~~~

Regretfully, Duen is in class the first time Bohn feels the baby well and truly kick. Sure, he’s been aware of it moving before, but not anything worth shouting about, nothing anyone else will be able to feel. Which was disappointing in its own right because it's its own special level of discomfort after that first moment of excitement, and if he's going to suffer he should at least be able to share it. So he can be excused for freaking the fuck out the first chance he finally gets to.

The only person who is home is Frong, unfortunately, and when Bohn asks if he wants to feel he looks like he's actually going to throw up.

"Why nooooot?" Bohn whines. He's not actually offended, if anything he just wants to torture Frong. Being denied that opportunity is immediately annoying to him.

Frong has backed himself into a corner of the living room, looking for all the world like he's being terrorized. "You've seen _Alien_ , right?" Frong asks, high pitched and absolutely freaked the hell out. He waves his hands in front of him when Bohn steps closer. "Did you know that none of the cast knew that thing was going to punch out of the dude's chest, so their reactions were genuine terror? That's me. That's me right now. Do _not_ make me touch your baby bump, I _swear to god_ I will _scream_."

Bohn scoffs, "It's a baby, not an extraterrestrial, you big weenie. Just touch it." Frong looks torn, especially after Bohn puts on his best puppy eyes. "Come on," he pleads, "you're hurting my feelings. Aren't we friends?"

Frong's entire face scrunches up with alarm. "Really? _That's_ how you're going to use our friendship? For this?"

Bohn smirks, all teeth. "Oh, for sure. Now touch it."

He really does look like he's going to be sick, but Bohn is determined now. Hesitantly, Frong reaches out a hand, and Bohn takes it immediately to press the palm of it against his stomach. Frong tenses up as soon as he makes contact, but sags again in the next instant when nothing happens. “You’re so full of shit,” he mutters, relief in every note of his voice, “The baby isn’t even-”

Apparently already blessed with comedic timing, the baby chooses that exact moment to move again, and Frong _shrieks_. He’s out of Bohn’s grasp so fast it might as well have been a superpower, jumping away and bolting across the room like he’s been lit on fire. Bohn is howling with laughter before Frong’s feet settle on the couch, where he’s chosen to perch as if escaping a spider. “Oh my _god_!” Bohn wheezes, wiping tears from his eyes. “You _flew_ across the room! I gotta sign this kid up for football! That’s amazing!”

Frong glowers at him, still clinging to the sofa in a fair imitation of a spooked cat. “Fuck you,” he hisses. “One day, you’re going to go missing and I’m just going to smile and pretend to grieve with everyone else and they’ll never find your body because I’m a _really_ good actor.”

By the time Duen gets home Bohn has given up on scaring the shit out of Frong for the small price of him taking Ben out for the evening. Because apparently as far as kids go, Ben is an exception. Or something. Technically he’s pretty sure Frong has already disavowed all future babysitting responsibilities with the caveat that any children in his vicinity must be of walking, talking, potty-trained age or he wants no part in it. Which is fair, but it does mean Bohn is going to have to start properly vetting some of his other friends for a temporary replacement if he ever wants to get laid again after the baby is born.

Speaking of.

It really is a crying shame that all of his best outfits don’t fit right now, but Bohn is pretty sure he’s pulling off the “ _Hey you left one of your lab coats here and I’ve made it mine now_ ” look pretty well, so it’s fine. At the very least Duen fumbles the large cardboard box he’s carrying so hard when he sees him that he almost throws it across the room. 

“ _Bohn_!” he scolds when he manages to get a better grip on it. There’s no heat in the reprimand though, or at least not the admonishing kind. Bohn bites his lip to keep from laughing. “That is _not_ what I brought that home for,” Duen sighs after a moment.

Curiosity wins out over horniess for a heartbeat, and Bohn quirks an eyebrow from where he’s sitting on the end of their bed. “Oh?”

Duen sets the box aside on the mattress before he pushes the lab coat deftly from Bohn’s shoulders. “I’m trying to- that’s supposed to be a scent substitute. As hot as this is, I’m not going to fuck you in it,” he apologizes, and Bohn stills as he’s divested of the article.

For once he doesn’t need a definition for the term Duen has just used. Someone had asked him once if he had one, had insisted he might need it as they’d marked out where an incision would be made. “Oh,” he whispers.

Duen’s hand is in his hair before the tiny, hushed exclamation even finishes leaving his mouth. “Don’t think about it too much,” he murmurs, placing a kiss to the corner of Bohn’s lips. “It’s just for the event that I’m not home when you first go into labor, nothing more.” He sounds so sure, so certain, that it’s easy for Bohn to let that brief spark of unease bleed right back out of him as he leans into the kiss. More than anything, he’s just thrilled by the gesture of it, the fact that Duen was thinking that far ahead, had picked up on Bohn’s low simmering fears enough to think of it. Were it anyone else he would be annoyed at how easy he is to read, but for Duen he is never anything but delighted. “Brought you something,” Duen says, soft and fond when he pulls away just far enough to rest their foreheads together. Bohn’s eyes shift towards the box. “Do you want to see?”

He thinks he already knows what it will contain, but that doesn’t make Bohn any less eager. 

There’s no lid to the box, so when Duen moves to hold it between them for Bohn to view the contents there isn't a moment of revealing surprise. He’s just the tiniest bit stunned regardless though. There’s a dozen or so soft and small blankets folded and stacked on one side, bracketed in on the other by twice that many infant onesies. It’s tradition, Bohn knows, to do this at the beginning of the third trimester, but it still makes him suck in a watery, choked sound. Everything’s already been washed and de-tagged, and when Bohn draws one of the plush blankets out to press against his face he notes that it already smells just a little like Duen. 

“Do you like them?” Duen prompts, and Bohn startles a little from where he’s been rubbing his cheek over the soft fabric to see that he’s watching him with affectionate, but ultimately nervous eyes. As always, it catches Bohn off guard just how new at this they both are, how easily Duen’s own worry gets the better of him. 

This time when Bohn looks through the box he takes his time, pulls out every onesie and blanket with careful consideration. They’re mostly pastel colors in the same tones as the lavender of the nursery, decorated with patterns of various animals and, to Bohn’s utter glee, a litany of flowers. He lingers on the one dotted with rose blooms and buries his face in it with a muffled purr. “I love them,” he hums, not missing the way Duen puffs out a relieved sigh like he was holding his breath. “They’re perfect.”

There’s no need for him to do it now, not when he and Duen are going to spend time off and on going through the things in this box for the next couple of months, but still Bohn takes the time to rub his cheek over everything before he puts it back. Excitement sparks in his chest each time he does it, nervous and elated all at once. Their baby. _Theirs_. Prepared for despite the circumstances of conception, soon to be swathed in that unique mix of their scents to play into the basic assurance and comfort all newborns need. “I love them,” Bohn repeats, and this time the purr that rumbles in him is loud, unquestionably pleased. Duen’s hand is in his hair again, gentle fingers carding his bangs back from his eyes and tucking a stray lock behind his ear until Bohn looks over at him. “Love you, too,” Bohn adds, just because he can.

Despite the intense, intent look that’s settled into Duen’s gaze he still stops to help pack everything up in the box again and take it off to the nursery. Bohn’s waiting for him when he gets back, which really just means that he's splayed out on the bed in nothing but his underwear. Duen climbs up over him with a knowing smirk. “Are you supposed to be on your back?” he asks, far too smug. “This isn’t going to be very fun for you if you let that weight rest on your kidneys for too long.”

“I resent these fat jokes,” Bohn teases, rolling over onto his side when Duen nudges at his hip. “I haven’t gained that much weight.”

“No,” Duen agrees, a chastising kiss pressed to the curve of Bohn’s shoulder as he says it. “But _someone_ has, and I’m not going to make love to you while you're in an uncomfortable position.”

Bohn can’t help the shiver of anticipation that ripples through him, as it always does, whenever Duen says stuff like that. Where Bohn is crass with his words, Duen is almost always romantic, even when half the things spoken around it are said in jest. Secretly, he loves it, is thrilled by how deeply Duen clearly cares about making sure he knows he’s wanted, that he’s adored. So while Bohn will never call it anything other than ‘fucking’ outloud, the fact that Duen will never see it as anything other than something personal and intimate and just for them makes his heart clench with unquenchable affection. 

Grabbing a pillow from under the headboard, Bohn tucks it beneath his head and twists around just enough to watch Duen’s hand disappear below the waistband of his underwear. His breath hitches as Duen crooks careful, curious fingers into the heat of him, and then staggers back out in a quiet gasp. Duen pulls his right leg up around his hip so he can lean down and capture Bohn’s mouth to his in a kiss, his breath hot over his jaw when he turns to bite at the juncture of it. “Been awhile, huh?” he notes, and Bohn relishes in the dark, low tone the question rings with. “What would you like me to do to you, phi?”

Fresh, fierce desire licks up through Bohn’s nerves, has him fluttering around Duen’s fingers, and he can feel the way Duen smiles the next time he lightly sinks his teeth into the line of his throat. Normally Bohn would probably ask for more, insist on being taken apart multiple times before he was ultimately satisfied. But Duen’s right, it has been awhile, and he’s honestly not sure how much his body is actually up for. He knows what he wants though, knows what he needs with that same, ever present hunger he’s had for years now. “Just you,” Bohn chokes out when Duen presses his fingers into him a little deeper, a tad harder, the perfect amount to make him grind back down against his hand with a strangled sound. 

Apparently he wasn’t quite clear enough though, because Duen has the gall to ask, “Like this, or-”

Bohn shakes his head before he can finish, biting down on a whimper when Duen pulls his hand away and leaves him achingly empty. “Fuck, _no_ ,” he pants, “Don’t play coy, you know what I want.”

Duen hums, low and too noncommittal for Bohn’s tastes, but he balances it out by hooking his thumbs beneath the elastic of Bohn’s underwear and dragging it off, so Bohn’s relieved that he’s not being completely obtuse. He is, however, going to continue being a tease though apparently. Bohn watches through half-lidded eyes as he shucks his shirt, torturously slow, and before Bohn can even fantasize about him starting on his pants he has Bohn’s leg around his waist again. 

This time when he slides his fingers in Bohn’s back arches. The sound that leaves his lungs is high, desperate and unmistakable, and as Duen twists his wrist to press a thumb to that tight bundle of nerves he keens. “F- _fuck_ , Duen, come on, I . . .” It’s not enough. It’s not deep enough, hard enough, and even though he’s already like this Bohn knows he won’t be satisfied until he’s full and tied. Duen wants him to say it though, Bohn can see it in the way he’s looking at him, dark and intense with the barest parting of his lips around a breathy, wonderous little sound of his own. “ _Please_ ,” Bohn begs, “baby, please. Need you." The next time Duen moves his fingers Bohn rocks back onto them with a groan, fixated now on the mesmerized way Duen watches him do it. He knows full well how much his boyfriend likes this, is more than aware of the fact that Duen takes a special kind of pleasure in unraveling him, in taking his time. And Bohn wants to give that to him, he really does, but he can feel how hard Duen is through his slacks where Bohn's left leg is pinned between his as he kneels on the mattress. He whimpers around a moan when Duen works a third finger in, his hands scrabbling at the sheets. Honestly, Bohn might actually cry if Duen doesn't just fuck him soon. "Please," he gasps again, biting his lip to hold back something that still comes out too close to a dangerously needy sob. " _Please_ , baby."

Okay, maybe that might have been an actual sob, because the next time his breath hitches Duen pulls his hand away with a startled sound, his other one coming up to soothe a thumb over Bohn's cheek as a tear rolls down it. "Hey," Duen whispers, concern now overlapping his earlier teasing, heated tone. "We can stop."

God no. Anything but that. Bohn shakes his head in swift, jerky starts. "Sorry. Sorry, I don't know why I'm . . ."

Except that he does know why. Pregnancy emotions run pretty fucking similarly to heat ones by the third trimester. And well aware how he tends to get at the peak of his heat, Bohn isn't actually all that shocked that it ends up taking so little to overwhelm him.

To his horror though Duen doesn't seem to think the best remedy for this is a good fuck, because in a heartbeat he's changed positions, rolled over onto the other side of the mattress and bundled Bohn up against his chest back to front. Bohn can't help but struggle a little in his hold for a minute, frustrated even as hot tears drip down. “Don’t,” he pleads, “I don’t need you to- to _coddle_ me. I’m just . . .” Pent up, unsated, easily overwrought. More than anything though, he’s really annoyed with himself right now. He just wanted a little time for the two of them, and he’s gone and ruined it by _crying_. For fuck’s sake. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out, shivering when Duen responds by leaving a sympathetic kiss to his shoulder.

As always, Duen is more patient with him than Bohn is sure he deserves, and knows what he needs even when Bohn vehemently denies it. He’s mostly quiet while Bohn scrubs furious hands over his eyes. Every unsteady breath Bohn inhales is answered with another kiss pressed to his skin, a soft dig of teeth at the underside of his jaw, or a cheek rubbing over the scent markers at his neck. There isn’t anything that can be said after all, no audible solaces to make for what is essentially a mostly meaningless moment of relieving tension. It’s only after Bohn’s breathing evens out again that he speaks, quiet and far too guilty for Bohn to bear. “I pushed you too hard,” he whispers. “I’m sorry.”

Yeah, okay, Bohn isn’t going to let that misunderstanding fly. “Duen,” he says as seriously as he can manage, wincing at how hoarse his voice sounds. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m just a mess.” Duen hooks his chin over his shoulder, and when Bohn tilts his head to the side to catch his eyes he gives him an extremely dubious look. “Really,” he insists. “Everything is . . . It’s all a lot, right now,” Bohn admits. “It’s not your fault.”

Duen frowns and, after a heartbeat, buries his face into the crook of Bohn’s neck. “I wish I could be here more,” he murmurs, and Bohn hates how much regret he can hear in his tone. 

Bohn twists in his grip as much as he can while still staying on his side, just enough that he can get a hand into Duen’s hair and stroke his fingers through it. “I know,” he returns, because unfortunately that’s a sentiment they share. He wishes Duen was here more too, but, as they’ve both acknowledged, the timing of all this wasn’t exactly ideal. Once more, Bohn finds himself with a guilty apology of his own on the tip of his tongue, but it dies a quick death as Duen trails a hand over his ribs and down his front to splay hesitant fingers across his stomach. His touch is always so reverent, almost disbelieving, and Bohn might worry about that more if it wasn’t always followed by an equally devoted kiss somewhere on his body. Despite the apprehension that sometimes lingers between them in the air, it’s always soothed over by a stronger surety.

It amazes Bohn sometimes how much Duen has never wavered in that regard. Not that Bohn had expected him to, but it’s comforting anyways. Even though it had been a surprise, Duen has never not wanted this just as fiercely as Bohn. He purrs when his boyfriend nuzzles along the side of his neck and drags his teeth across the underside of his jaw, certain, adoring, every possessive bite traced back over with a reassuring kiss.

“I still want to have sex with you, by the way,” Bohn hums into the continued, quiet worship being laved over his neck and shoulder. “Preferably soon while we have the alone time.”

Duen pauses, and Bohn can’t repress the tremble of anticipation as he lifts his mouth away from his skin just far enough to ghost a hot breath over him. “Alright. Is it okay like this?” He settles a hand on Bohn’s hip as he says it, the arm resting under his body curling up around his chest. Bohn flushes, a little taken aback by the unexpected intimacy of the position, and when Duen follows up the question with a quiet, “I like being able to hold you when I fuck you,” he’s pretty sure even the tips of his ears turn red.

Well if Bohn wasn’t already horny that would have certainly turned the dial up to eleven. “Uh, yeah, this works,” he says quickly, and Duen chuckles against his shoulder.

This time, when Duen goes slow it’s obvious that he’s just trying to draw out their time together rather than tease. He outlines lazy shapes over Bohn’s sternum after he discards his pants. For awhile he spends languid minutes peppering the base of Bohn’s neck with kisses and blooming light, bruising marks there while he grinds against him. Bohn can feel him getting hard again, is keenly aware of the slick slide of precum smearing over the curve of his ass. He doesn’t want to beg, but a desperate little whimper escapes him anyways after a moment. 

Duen shifts to trail a hand to his right thigh and pull his legs apart, and Bohn takes that as his cue to reach down and line them up properly so the next time Duen rolls his hips forward he sinks in. Bohn scrabbles for a hold in the hair at the base of Duen’s neck as he does, a breathy sigh of relief leaving his lungs. “ _God_ ,” he gasps, the exhale shortly followed by, “Fuck, I really am vanilla, aren’t I.”

Huffing in amusement over his neck, Duen murmurs, “I like that, though.” It’s not like they’ve never done other stuff, tried out different kinks, but it always comes back around to this. Just the two of them and the simplicity of their own bodies. For Bohn at least there will never be anything better than how obviously and deeply Duen desires him exactly as he is.

He likes this the best, loves when Duen takes him slowly, holds him close when he rocks into him, quiet praises hummed over his skin. It’s not even dirty talk so much as it is a litany of softly whispered worships. “So good,” Duen breathes at his shoulder, punctuating his words with a gentle bite over his spine. “Perfect. _Mine_.” It’s the possessiveness that really gets him, that has Bohn’s fingers flexing in Duen’s hair, his hips working back against every deep, drawn out thrust. He chokes on a loud moan and Duen follows it with a low growl, another dig of his teeth into Bohn’s skin. Normally Bohn tends to be the chattier of the two of them in bed, but he’s not opposed to this by any means. Every uttered admiration sends an exhilarated tingle through his nerves, has him panting for more.

His chest heaves under Duen’s splayed fingers, and he feels like his every heartbeat is being mapped and memorized. That thought is only confirmed when his breath hitches audibly and Duen stops to pull him a little more flush to him, circling his hips to grind inside his body at just the right angle and force a strangled, high noise of ecstasy from Bohn’s lips. “Gorgeous, phi,” Duen praises when Bohn’s back arches the next time he cants in fully, the grip on his hip tight to keep him still and make him really relish in the fullness of it. “Love this,” he purrs, “love how much you love it, how good you are for me. _Look at you_ ,” he admires, “already round with my child and still _begging for it_.”

The suddenness of his own orgasm catches Bohn so off guard the noise he makes is practically a scream. Duen answers it with a satisfied, knowing growl, his teeth clenched over the nape of Bohn’s neck as he tenses up and squeezes down as sharp, heated ripples wash through him. “ _Fuck_!” he gasps, utterly breathless. “ _Fuck_!” He’s trembling with aftershocks still when he feels the pressure of Duen’s knot against the core of him, and he pants on a wordless, desperate affirmation. Duen holds him impossibly closer, his thrusts shallowing as he presses and jerks until it sticks inside. Bohn is achingly oversensitive when Duen comes, but he relishes in it anyways. He takes in the obvious affect in Duen’s breath across his neck, the way his grip on Bohn’s hip loosens and tightens with every deep twitch of his cock inside him, and the quiet, low moan that’s for his ears alone. “Good?” Bohn whispers, even though he knows very well it was. 

Duen’s reply is a satiated hum that vibrates against his skin, a long moment spent nuzzling into the crook of Bohn’s neck until their scents mull together in the air, and that’s more than enough of an answer to satisfy him.

They lay there like that for awhile, content to enjoy the proximity of being tied together in silence. Duen spends most of it nibbling over the line of Bohn’s throat and down his shoulder, the few slightly harsher bites he gifts interspersed by nosing at the marks he’s leaving until it’s obvious who made them. By the time he’s able to pull out Bohn has grown lax in his arms, pliant to every lingering touch and possessive press of teeth. “Love you,” Duen murmurs over his cheek, the hinge of his jaw, the curve of his shoulder, “love you.” His adorations are peppered with kisses, each one fiercer than the last. 

Bohn lets him continue for quite awhile, comfortable basking in the affection until he’s abruptly and physically reminded of something Duen will definitely want to experience. Slowly, cautious of moving too much and ruining the moment, he holds up a palm into Duen’s line of sight. “Give me your hand,” he urges, and Duen obeys instantly. 

He listens for the reaction when he spreads Duen’s fingers out over his stomach, grinning when he’s rewarded with a sharp and startled inhale. “Oh!” Duen exclaims, and Bohn twists just enough to observe the way his eyes widen, so bright and excited that it takes his own breath away, too. It reminds him of that first glimpse of the ultrasound, warmth blooming in Bohn’s chest as Duen shifts his hand to chase the movement and feel it for just a second more. “ _Bohn_ ,” he whispers, and Bohn has never loved him more than in that very moment, when he’s practically shaking with elation and his voice is laced through with unrestrained wonder. 

“That’s yours,” Bohn reminds, laughing softly. He can feel Duen’s heart hammering through his back where they’re still tangled together, can hear his breath catch again when the baby gives another, unmistakable kick. 

“. . . Ours,” Duen corrects.

“Mm,” Bohn agrees readily. “Yeah. Ours.”

They’ve come this far together.

~~~***~~~

Despite how mediocre Duen has always been with faux bravado, it still takes Bohn longer than he’d like to admit to realize that something is off. Luckily he’s able to figure out pretty quickly that it’s nothing bad, otherwise he’d be way more concerned. No, it’s not terrible, but Duen is still unquestionably nervous, disquieted, enough for Bohn to notice but not enough for him to pick up on immediately. 

He doesn’t stop paying attention though. He watches Duen pull aside quite a few of his friends when they visit, taking them off to another room to talk in voices too low for Bohn to eavesdrop on without being obvious. He even does this to Ben, which Bohn finds especially odd but, again, not enough to elicit any real alarm. Whatever it is he knows Duen will tell him eventually.

What he doesn’t expect, though, is for Duen to finally corner him while he’s rearranging the nest for the umpteenth time with a ring box. 

To say that wasn’t what he was expecting is . . . An understatement, at best. 

Duen looks . . . Well, he looks a little green, actually, and Bohn levels him with a smile he hopes comes off as understanding as he means it to. “Duen,” he starts, but Duen shakes his head before he can continue.

“Don’t talk me out of it,” he says stiffly. “I-I should have done this earlier. We’re having a baby, and we should be-”

“Duen,” Bohn says, insistent. “I don’t want to get married right now.”

Duen stares at him for a long, surprised second before he levels him with a suspicious glare. “Why?”

“Because _you_ don’t want to get married,” Bohn answers easily. He can smell it in the air, the palpable uncertainty, the apprehension. It would sting a little bit if Duen’s face wasn’t growing more and more horrified by the second in the wake of that accusation. 

When Duen kneels down with him in the nest he does it on both knees, the ring box set aside so he can wrap his arms around Bohn’s shoulders as well as he can manage. “I _do_ want to marry you,” he corrects fiercely, and Bohn can’t help how that still makes relief flash through him. “I just . . . I always . . . I wanted to be . . . better.”

He doesn’t elaborate, and Bohn lets that vague, weighty explanation hang in the air before he asks, quiet and confused, “What do you mean?”

“I should be a better person,” Duen whispers. “I’m not . . . I’m nobody right now. I’ve barely been able to provide anything for you during all this. I’ve been a _really terrible_ alpha, and I-”

Bohn reels back, alarmed by the genuine distress in Duen’s voice, “No. What the fuck? Do you actually think that? Duen you’ve been . . .” He’s not even sure if he has the words for everything he wants to say, and even the unwavering, honest, “amazing,” that he does manage seems dull compared to every bright and shining part of his life that Duen makes up. 

Still, Duen shakes his head. “When I marry you I want to be the best version of myself. I should have my degree, my doctorate, a real job and not a residency. I want to be able to pay for things equally, be home to cook our family dinners. And I know part of it is stupid alpha instinct, but I also really do want to do those things. I _like_ doing them. I want to be able to provide for you, and I _can’t_ yet and I-” he chokes, and Bohn’s heart breaks for how desperately he obviously means it. 

How could he have missed this? Bohn brushes away brimming tears from the corners of Duen’s eyes with a low, distressed sound of his own. “Baby, why didn’t you tell me?” If anyone would have understood, it would be him. Bohn is all too aware of what it's like to feel like you've failed to do the things you want most, or fallen short of being the sort of person you desire to be. “You should have told me you felt like that,” Bohn whispers, dismayed, “so I could have let you know sooner how dumb you are.”

Duen pulls back and blinks at him, hiccupping on an unsteady inhale. “H-huh?”

“You want to be the best version of yourself,” Bohn says slowly, carefully. “But you already are. You’re the best version of you _every single day_. Every time you wake up you’re a better you than the day before, and I will never not be absolutely amazed by you.” He squeezes Duen’s cheeks between his palms before he pulls him in for a kiss, the press of their lips more for the sake of affirmation than anything else. “I love you,” he reminds in the air between them. “I do want to marry you. But I want you to want that, too, even if that means you have to . . .” Bohn can’t believe he’s about to say this, the words taste so wrong and weird on his tongue before they’re even spoken into the world. “Even if you insist on having a doctorate to consider yourself worthy of me. I can’t believe you just made me say that,” he huffs as soon as it’s out. “Fuck. Like on one hand I’m oddly flattered, but on the other I can’t wrap my head around the idea that you really think you have to, I don’t know, measure up to me by being a doctor or whatever. My market value is _way_ lower than that,” he laughs.

Duen’s eyes harden. “It is not.”

“I love that you think so highly of me,” Bohn preens, only to be cut short when Duen captures his mouth against his like he means to steal any further protests directly from his lungs.

“ _No_ ,” he hisses, hot, fierce, and his hands are shaking where they’ve come up to grip Bohn’s shoulders. “Listen, if I can’t say shit like that about myself, you really don’t get to either. You are _everything_ to me,” Duen says. Bohn has never heard that note in his voice before, that fire. “That’s why I want to be worthy of you, okay? I want to feel as good about myself as I feel about you. And maybe that’s a little selfish, I don’t know, but it’s true. When we’re married I want to be _proud_ of it. I want to be able to do everything for you that I want to. And I really . . .” His voice breaks again, just a little. “I really wish I could be that person now. But I’m not.”

He’s already perfect, Bohn thinks to himself, but this time he keeps that thought inside. It’s not what Duen needs to hear. “You will be,” he murmurs instead. 

Honestly, Bohn never even expected this much. Once, he’d been enamored with a shy smile, surer laughter, and a crescent curve of eyes that had simply sought to give back. He never could have imagined having those things for himself, let alone more. There are moments in every day, sometimes every hour, where Bohn finds himself stunned and breathless by the steadfastness of Duen’s affection, his adoration. It’s more than he ever would have asked for, and yet, apparently, Duen still has more to give. In many ways the promise of a yet untold future is better than a proposal. It rests in Bohn’s chest to the tune of a synchronized heartbeat, already a greater vow than anything he’s been gifted in his life thus far. “I love you so much,” he whispers into Duen’s shoulder as he winds his arms around him, pulls him close again. “And if you think you can somehow be better than you already are, then I can’t wait to love you even more. You’re everything to me, too.”

Bohn doesn’t need a piece of paper, doesn’t need the materialism of gold or a ring to prove that. They already belong to together in every way that matters to him. They have a house, a family, each other, an entire life already shared. Waiting a few more years to make it official seems almost paltry in comparison to an already sworn upon future. 

~~~***~~~

Eventually, Bohn’s frequent naps in the nursery turn into a handful of waking hours a day spent there as well. By the time he’s finally satisfied by the way he’s arranged and stored everything, he’s retreating there for the majority of the day. Like with most of his instincts when it comes to nesting, he doesn’t really realize he’s doing it until the evening when Duen gently asks, “Do you want to start sleeping in here?”

Bohn blinks at him for a moment, befuddled, before it sinks in what Duen means. “Oh. I . . . Yeah,” he swallows. “Can we?”

“Of course,” Duen answers without hesitation. 

The knowledge that he’s gotten to this point stirs up a fresh wash of nervous energy in him, but Bohn pushes it back down before it can get overwhelming. This is what nesting is for, after all. He’s been preparing for this instinctively. By just over eight months it’s normal for him to want to stay in the safe space he’s created. That’s the entire point.

It’s a little odd waking up in a room, a bed, other than his own for the first few days, but Duen is always there to murmur quiet reassurances over his skin and linger for as long as he can before he has to head out for the day. And when he isn’t there Bohn is content to tuck up with the lab coat he leaves behind, the one Duen has been wearing around the house when he is home so that it smells like him. 

For the most part Boss, Frong, and Tingting stick to the other parts of the house, only intruding to bring him food and water or check on him intermittently. It’s not exactly rude of them to enter the space, but it’s also not entirely welcome, either. The nest is for Bohn, for his mate, for the baby, and of course, for Ben too.

Ben, who to Bohn’s delight, takes to Bohn’s seclusion with far more ease than expected. If anything, he’s actually keen on it, bringing his tablet in with him every day after school so they can watch anime together. Bohn zones out during a lot of it, distracted with keeping track of every little roll and kick inside him, but Ben doesn’t seem to mind, especially not after Bohn says, “I think the baby likes _Detective Conan_ more than me.”

“. . . Can they hear the show?” Ben asks, and Bohn smiles at the curious delight blooming over his face.

“Supposedly,” Bohn says. “Some people like to talk to the baby before it’s born, or play music for them. There have been studies trying to prove that early stimulation like that makes the baby smarter.” Bohn’s not sure any of that is true, but that had never really stopped him. “I talked to you,” he admits.

It hurts, just a little, to see such unfiltered surprise cross Ben’s features. “You did?”

“Of course,” Bohn reaffirms. Someday, he wants to tell Ben all the things he’d said to him before he’d even breathed his first breaths. There were so many words whispered in the dark, quiet confessions trapped in the amber of memory. 

_“I’m scared.”_

_“I’m excited to meet you.”_

_“I don’t know if I can do this.”_

_“You’re going to grow into someone fantastic, I know it.”_

_“I hope you won’t hate me.”_

_“I love you.”_

Ben stares at him for a moment when he fails to elaborate, and Bohn settles for what he can give him now, a fond hand to Ben’s neck, a thumb stroking over his cheek as he pulls him in to place a kiss to his forehead that he turns into a quick raspberry that makes Ben squeal and squirm away with laughter. 

“I’m too old for that now!” he protests, giggling anyways. 

“Nah,” Bohn scoffs, “never.”

“Can I talk to the baby, too?” Ben asks next, and Bohn’s heart soars.

“Of course you can.”

After that their afternoons together are sprinkled through with moments spent just like that. Ben tells the baby about his day, his homework, what games he played with his friends at recess, and Bohn listens to all of it with equally rapt attention. He says it all like he expects the baby to come out ready to participate in everything he’s discussing, and Bohn can’t help but laugh a little when he reveals it’ll probably be another year yet before they’ll even be able to walk.

“That’s _so long_ ,” Ben groans, dragging his hands over his face. He’s definitely inherited Bohn’s flare for drama. “That means it’ll be even longer before I can teach them how to kick a football!”

Bohn grins, “Oh? You’re going to teach them?” 

“If I let phorh teach them everything they’ll only know how to study,” Ben says very seriously, and Bohn almost passes out from laughing. 

Duen finds Ben’s growing enthusiasm nearly as endearing as Bohn does, and after their son is tucked in bed for the night, he asks quietly, “Have you thought about letting Ben pick the chue len?”

Bohn sets his phone aside and sits up a little further in the cushioning to give Duen a considering look. “You assume I haven’t already thought of one.”

“You haven’t,” Duen deadpans knowingly. “You were going to let me choose it.”

Rude. “So? Shouldn’t you choose it? Since I’m choosing the . . . Wait,” Bohn stops, suspicious, “did you know I've already decided on a birth name?” Duen just lifts an eyebrow, far too smug, and Bohn frowns. “You better not be using whatever these mind reader powers are to figure out what it is. It’s supposed to be a surprise,” he huffs. Actually, he’s going to be pretty upset if it’s not a surprise, he’s sort of had the name picked out for . . . Well, for awhile. Perhaps since before he even got pregnant. 

“I don’t know what the name is,” Duen reassures. “But I am going to insist at the very least that _you_ don’t choose the chue len.”

“Excuse me?”

“I know Ben is short for Benz,” Duen says unflinchingly and totally unamused. “If you give another kid a car based nickname I will preemptively file for divorce.”

Empty threats. Bohn waves a dismissive hand at him. “Fine. But are you sure you don’t want to?”

Duen leans in until their noses are brushing, the tiniest, confident smirk on his lips before he closes the distance to kiss him. “I’ll have another chance,” he teases, which is way, way hotter than it legally should be. 

The vote is clear though, and Bohn wastes no time in bringing it up with Ben the very next day. 

“I’m ten,” Ben says, clearly stunned. 

Bohn bites his lip to keep from laughing. “You are,” he agrees. “But Duen thinks you should pick it, and I . . . I’d be really, really happy if you did, too.”

It feels like coming full circle for Ben to decide this. Bohn wants, more than he realized, for Ben to play his own part in bringing this new life into the world. A chue len is big, and that clearly hasn’t escaped Ben at all. 

“I can choose anything?” he asks hesitantly, cheeks slightly pink.

“Within reason,” Bohn says. “Don’t pick anything rude, or gross. This is the name most people will call the baby for the rest of their life.”

Ben considers this for a moment in silence, his lower lip tugged up between his teeth. “Since it’s my sister, or brother,” he adds with some reluctance, “should their name match mine?”

“It can. That’s the tradition.” Truthfully, Bohn would very much like for Ben to pick something that will match his son's own nickname, but he also won’t force it if Ben would rather not have that connection. “Do you want it to match yours?” he asks.

Ben nods, and Bohn sucks in a shaky breath and holds it for an extra beat to keep from crying. 

And then, of course, Ben ruins the moment in an obviously genetic fashion by saying, “What about Bug?”

For a second Bohn is sure he’s serious, and he gapes at him as his mind spins back to his son’s first observations of the ultrasound. But then Ben bursts out laughing.

“Just kidding! Can I think about it?”

“Sure,” Bohn sighs, relieved that he didn’t actually just subject himself to having to gently tell his eldest that he could not, in fact, curse his sibling with the name “Bug.”

Still, Ben’s enthusiasm is unexpectedly soothing. The house is brimming with nothing but excitement, and it’s easy to pass the days lulled by that collective, contented happiness. This is how it’s supposed to be, Bohn realizes in the midst of a light doze one weekend afternoon. He’s warmed by Duen asleep and draped over his back, Ben pillowed on his legs with a book tucked between him and the swell of his belly, the boy’s voice rising and falling as he reads to the baby he’s eager to name. Bohn can hear the faint clatter of Boss and Tingting in the kitchen, the flip of paper as Frong makes sure all of Duen’s paternity leave forms are correctly filled out. His nest is perfect, warmed by the rays of the setting sun drifting in through the windows and laced with the scent of home. 

The last of Bohn’s fear leaves him with the distant abruptness of a soap bubble popping. He’s almost unaffected by it with how inconsequential it suddenly seems. While he knows what he had been scared of, all of it is vastly overshadowed by the sheer amount of everything else he has now. How can he be afraid when he’s surrounded by so much of _this_?

Duen shifts against his back, the arm he has curled over him tightening as he nuzzles into Bohn’s shoulder with a muffled yawn. “Someone’s happy,” he mumbles sleepily. “Did you figure it out?”

Bohn tries to scowl, he really does, but he knows he’s failing spectacularly when Duen snickers and presses a kiss to his cheek. “You could just tell me these things for once, you know,” he complains. “Instead of always waiting for me to unravel my own feelings.”

“Hmm,” Duen hums, “but they’re _your_ feelings. I can’t tell you how to feel, phi. I can only do my best to make sure you know that you’re loved.”

And he is. Unexpectedly, and unfalteringly so. Bohn has more to his life now than he ever would have dreamed ten years ago. And that alone makes the days ahead seem that much brighter. 

~~~***~~~

Duen isn't there when it starts, and despite being in the middle of class he doesn't hesitate to drop everything to be at Bohn's side as soon as possible. Although maybe he needn't have rushed quite so much, because by hour twenty Bohn really feels bad about calling him in such a panic at the beginning. Ultimately he can't really regret it though, not when the end result is that Duen is here. 

Duen is here. _Duen is here_. And Bohn doesn't know what he would have done without him. 

"You're doing so good," Duen praises, as if this really isn't hour twenty of this bullshit, as if Bohn isn't sweaty and exhausted, shaking with every other breath and totally naked. Necessity aside, he really, really wishes he wasn't naked. All of that kind of fades into the background though whenever Duen talks. He doesn’t seem to mind the fact that Bohn has literally torn up the back of his shirt where he has his arms wrapped around his shoulders, his fingers so twisted in the fabric he’s strained parts of it into ribbons. Nor does he care about the bite marks that have been left near his collarbones, a few hard enough to pierce the skin. This is a new high for Duen’s patience, Bohn thinks dizzily as his damp bangs are brushed aside, a kiss pressed to his forehead. When all this is over Bohn is going to seriously learn how to at least cook a basic entre just so he can try and be half that impressive. 

They’d started out pacing the room at Boss’ instruction, but by the end Bohn can barely stay on his knees, even with Duen practically holding his entire weight. Every contraction feels like it’ll be the one to break him, leaves him heaving for breath and struggling to muffle his helpless whimpers in the crook of Duen’s neck. Somehow, apprehensions and unease aside, Bohn still didn’t expect it to be this hard.

It could have been so much worse though, he reminds himself as he pushes at Boss’ insistence. It could have been so much worse. But Duen is here. Even as weary as he is Bohn has enough presence of mind to cling to that fact, to cling to him through every harsh and heavy ripple of his muscles that has him gasping around increasingly desperate sobs. 

“Crowning!” Boss calls.

Bohn is definitely not with it enough to register what the fuck that means, but he can make out the excitement in his friend’s tone, can match it to how Duen moves to tip their foreheads together, his gaze shining with releif. “Almost, phi. You’re almost done. Okay?” Bohn nods, closing his eyes as the movement makes his vision swim. He strains his ears to focus on Duen’s voice though, keeps that sound above everything else, ahead of the pain and the exhaustion until it drowns it all out. “I’ve got you,” Duen assures, low, steady. “You’re doing so good. Come on, Bohn. I’ve got you.”

It hurts. 

Pain, pain, pain. Pressure, pressure, pressure. 

Bohn tangles his fingers in the back of Duen’s shirt, chokes on a jagged, unsteady noise that Duen soothes away with the simplicity of tightening his hold on him, and then it’s over.

His ears are ringing, his lungs burning as he sucks in breath after shallow breath, and when he cracks open his eyes to blink away the blur of tears, he registers the unmistakable sound of high pitched crying. He’s sagged against his boyfriend’s shoulder, and Duen is murmuring quiet adorations over his cheek, his neck, chasing the trembles down Bohn’s spine with slow, fervent touches. “You did it,” Duen whispers. “You did it, phi.”

Bohn wants to demand the visual proof of that, but the words won’t come to him for a few long minutes. So instead he just settles more loosely into Duen’s embrace, content to just let go and lean into the support while he tries to reboot his brain. Eventually though, after what he’s still sure isn’t much time at all, he manages a hoarse, demanding, “baby.”

“Boss is cleaning them up,” Duen reassures, and Bohn really wants to protest that he honestly doesn’t give a shit if the kid is gross, but again he’s a little too worn out to find the voice to. “You should lay down,” Duen urges, which is actually a very good idea since Bohn has already basically collapsed against him. 

Duen gets him situated in the nest, drags a blanket over him to give him back some semblance of modesty, and tosses a load of messy towels out of the area just in time for Boss to wander back from the side of the room with a carefully swathed, wailing bundle. 

“Told you I’m good at this,” Boss grins, holding it out, and for a heartbeat Bohn almost doesn’t take it. 

“I’m right here,” Duen says quietly where he’s serving as Bohn’s back rest, the reminder kissed into the curve of his shoulder. “You won’t drop them.”

Slowly, Bohn extends his shaking arms, sucking in a startled breath as Boss gently settles the blanketed weight into his grip. Almost immediately Bohn tucks it all up to his chest, eager to stare down into the red and scrunched up face of the tiny thing that he’s brought into the world. Duen and Boss are exchanging a few quick words, something about recording kilograms and centimeters and a whole lot of other stuff that seems like paperwork Bohn doesn’t care about. The baby is crying, every breath they've taken so far an angry, shuddering sound, and Bohn’s mind reels as he tries to remember what he had done to settle Ben in his first few minutes on earth.

His heart a summer thunderstorm behind his ribs, Bohn tucks the squirming infant just a little closer to his body and leans down to brush his cheek over the top of their head. Tiny fingers bat at the underside of his chin, but he hears the telltale hitch of a sob being cut off, a deeper, hiccupping inhale. Duen’s arms tighten around his middle, and Bohn faintly registers him settling his chin over his shoulder, but only just. His attention is fixated now, the rest of the world a distant buzz of lesser importance as he nuzzles at a puffy little cheek, kisses the tip of a nose, and leans back just enough to take in the familiar crescent curve of bewildered eyes staring up at him. “Hey, baby girl,” he whispers, soft and warm and already deliriously fond. “I’ve waited so long to meet you.”

“Okay, I’ll write girl on the-” Boss starts, stops, and then hurriedly says, “Later. Outside. I will do that . . . Elsewhere.” Bohn figures Duen must have leveled him with a truly paralyzing glare, but he doesn’t look up to confirm as Boss shouts a hasty, “Congrats!” and scurries out of the room.

Bohn will thank him later when he’s rested and has the brain power for it. Right now though he has much more important things to look after. He’s not entirely sure what comes next, when she’ll need to eat, or be dressed, or sleep, but he’s sure he’ll figure it out. For now he simply follows what his tired body is telling him. Duen was right, post-labor endorphins are a wonderful drug. He noses over every bit of her he can, places breathless kisses to the wispy curls of dark hair on her head and nuzzles along the rise and fall of her chest, lingering to feel the tiny rhythm of her heart. “You gave me such trouble,” he scolds lightly, grinning when she just blinks at him. Adorable, he thinks, pausing to kiss one of her chubby little cheeks again with a huff of laughter. “You were worth it though,” he murmurs. “You were so worth it, Duangkamol.”

Duen’s breath catches at his back, and Bohn smirks as he pecks another kiss to his daughter’s scrunched up face. “ _Bohn_ ,” he says, startled. “That’s . . .”

“Like it?” Bohn asks. He doesn’t lift his head enough to look at him, too busy trying to leave his scent over the baby’s grasping hands, too nervous that Duen actually might not. It’s not the name they’ll call her, that will come down to the chue len that Ben chooses, but it is the name Bohn wants printed on the birth certificate. Duangkamol, _from the heart_ , the fact that it bears a certain resemblance is entirely intentional. “I’ve had it picked out for awhile,” Bohn admits when Duen doesn’t respond.

“How long?”

Bohn hesitates, steadies himself on the answer, and replies with a low, embarrassed, “Um, since that first heat we spent together? Maybe? When you said that you wanted . . . Well, _this_.”

Duen’s arms tighten around him, and Bohn smiles when a laugh is breathed out over his ear. “Duangkamol Rattananumchok. I like it. Though it's a bit much to call such a little thing,” he teases, and Bohn watches as he reaches to tangle their fingers together around her, a tentative thumb brushing across a flailing arm. Part of Bohn wants to pass her off to him, is eager to see him fumble a bit while he tries to figure out how to hold her, but the other part of him is fiercely intent on keeping her to himself for awhile yet. 

And then he forgets about all of that as the door creaks open just enough for Ben to peek into the nursery with wide eyes. Bohn sits up a little further, a fresh wave of energy sparking to life in him. Both of them, both of his babies, his whole family. “Come here,” he beckons, delighted when Ben eases into the room. He has his lower lip pulled up between his teeth, his hands twisting at the hem of his shirt (the one that declares him as a big brother, Bohn notes with elation), and there’s an anxious pink tinge to his cheeks as he shuffles up to the side of the nest. “It’s okay,” Bohn says, “come here. Come meet your sister.”

At that Ben brightens, dropping down to crawl across the arrangement of pillows and blankets until he’s kneeling between Bohn’s knees and peering at the wiggly bundle in his arms. “Oh,” he whispers. “Can I . . . Can I touch her?”

“Of course you can,” Bohn murmurs. 

Ben lifts a hand, hesitating for a long moment in which Bohn is sure he’s holding his breath before he places careful, cautious fingers to the top of her head. He doesn’t say a word, and Bohn watches him stare at her, takes in the flare of his nostrils, the softening of his eyes. “She smells like me,” he says after a heartbeat, awed. “Hello, baby.”

It was worth it, all of it, just for this. Every second of agony, of heartache, of uncertainty, all of it was paid in full to bring Bohn to this exact moment in time where his life is perfect, loved, complete, and one happy accident is grinning from ear to ear as he settles a tentative palm over the cheek of another. 

Duen rumbles out a purr, noses up under his jaw, and Bohn sucks in a shaky, shallow inhale as he realizes he has tears pooling in the corners of his eyes. He blinks them back before they can fall, jerks his head from side to side quickly to pull himself together. “Did you think of a chue len?” he asks when Ben glances up at him. 

Ben hums out an affirmative, but pauses for a long, uncertain moment. “You can, um, say no if you don’t like it. I don’t know if it’s any good, so . . .”

“I’m sure it’s perfect,” Bohn says. Ben might be ten, but Bohn trusts him not to choose something actually terrible. He’s been carrying around a little notebook for the past few weeks, scribbling in it whenever he thinks Bohn or Duen isn’t looking. Whatever nickname he’s chosen clearly has a lot of thought put into it already, and Bohn knows it’s going to be the right one even before he hears it.

“I was thinking . . .” Ben hesitates still, fiddling with an untucked corner of the blanket wrapped around his sister. “Maybe . . . Bee?”

Bee. Bohn stares at him, his mind flashing back to that first ultrasound again, of Ben’s incredulous exclamation that his still developing sibling looked like a tiny bug. It’s . . . “Cute,” Bohn praises, “Ben, that’s amazing. It’s the perfect name. I told you you’d choose the best one.”

Ben flushes with surprise. “Really?”

“Really,” Duen says over Bohn’s shoulder. “Bee is a great chue len. You picked something that matches yours and has a memory attached to it. Good job.”

The sheer level of flustered dazzelment on Ben’s face is intoxicating, and Bohn carefully unwinds an arm from around Bee, tucking her securely to his chest, to hook it around his son’s shoulders instead. He laughs over Ben’s cheek, drunk with both the high of the monumental moment and his own exhaustion creeping back up on him. “Proud of you,” he purrs, nuzzling at Ben’s neck and pulling back before the boy can get too embarrassed by the attention. It’s important, even if Ben doesn’t really realize just how much right now. Although, then again, maybe he does. There’s obvious wonder in Ben’s gaze as he stares down at his sister, the surprise still evident by the slight, startled parting of his lips when he breathes. It’s a connection that Bohn desperately hopes the two of them will cherish forever. 

Bohn had brought her into the world, and Duen had made her, but Ben had been the first to speak her name.

That, in Bohn’s opinion, is the far more decisive act of creation.

~~~***~~~

If Bohn is a little nonplussed when Duen wakes him up just a few hours later he figures he can be forgiven. He might be a little, uh, less forgiven for biting Duen on the hand when he tries to untangle him from where he’s curled around the baby. To his credit Duen just looks down at the bruising imprint of teeth with a stare that’s vaguely long-suffering, and then gets both arms around Bohn’s middle to bodily haul him up. Considering everything else Bohn has been through in the last day or so it’s massively uncomfortable, but he’s so wary of waking Bee from where she’s dozing in the nest that he doesn’t struggle or snap as much as he’d like. At least not until Duen manages to get him out into the hall. Boss is waiting outside and he salutes them like a total asshole when they pass, apparently uncaring about how Bohn is quickly working himself into a hissing, spitting wreck, and ducks into the nursery before Bohn can snarl out a protest. 

“He’s just going to put a onesie and a diaper on her, and probably change the sheets,” Duen huffs, dragging him towards the bathroom. “And you have _got_ to take a shower and put on something clean.”

Bohn has about a hundred or so very nasty retorts to all of that, especially about the fact that anyone other than him is going to be touching _his_ baby. He doesn’t have the energy to fight for very long though, something which Duen is clearly aware of with how patient he is in trying to wrangle him into the tub. Eventually, Bohn can’t help but just give in, slumping over the side of the bath in defeat. He’s quiet while Duen cleans him up, petulant when concerned hands thread into his wet hair and card it back from his eyes. Deep down he knows this is for the best, is necessary, but it churns up every viscerally protective and paternal instinct in him. It also, unfortunately, claws at those forced down memories of separation, and there’s only so much of that Bohn can take before it starts to get the better of him.

Duen is quick though, efficient despite how Bohn literally just turns into a limp fish on him. And really Bohn is probably only away from the nursery for a half hour at most before Duen’s carrying him right back in, clean, mostly dried, and impatient to return to the baby. She’s exactly where he left her, though Bohn is displeased to note she’s no longer asleep, and he wastes no time in squirming out of Duen’s grip to scoop her up and tuck her up against his chest. Boss has put one of the onesies Duen picked out on her, and it already smells so much like them Bohn can’t help but be lulled by it, his racing heart settling back into a low and happy tempo.

The sheets have indeed been switched out, Bohn recognizes with instant distaste, but at least Boss had been smart enough to use one of the spare sets Bohn had hidden away in the closet of the room months ago. So when he curls back up on his side with Bee he’s not too bothered by the slight difference in scent. A hesitant hand touches his shoulder, traces up his neck, his cheek, and after a moment of letting it wander Bohn tilts his head back just enough to take in Duen looking down at him with soft consideration. 

“You should eat something,” Duen murmurs, and it’s only as he says it that Bohn realizes he’s starving. 

First, though, “There’s formula in the cabinet,” he says slowly, mildly alarmed about how thick his tongue feels in his mouth, how difficult it is to make the dull, distant roll of thoughts and instincts in his brain to form into something coherent. “Can you . . .” He needs to heat the water just right, test the temperature on his own skin. There are instructions on the box, but Bohn is suddenly hyper aware that he never took the time to walk Duen through how to do it. It didn’t occur to him how ingrained it would be for him to not want to leave the nest.

As if reading his mind Duen smiles and brushes a strand of Bohn’s hair behind his ear. “It’s alright, I know how. What about you, though? What can I get for you?”

After quite a few months of having the world’s pickiest diet, Bohn is hesitant to just start stuffing his face despite how hungry he feels. “Omelette,” he decides, grateful when Duen doesn’t ask more of him.

Luckily, Duen is only gone for a little while, twenty minutes at best, because after the first little stretch of his absence Bohn has managed to work himself up into a level of anxiety he wasn’t aware he could reach when his boyfriend is literally only a few rooms away. He’d underestimated how much he was relying on Duen’s continued presence to settle him, on the affect the near and constant scent and weight of him had clearly worked towards soothing away the unease of postpartum vulnerability. It’s Bohn’s job to protect the baby. It’s Duen’s job to protect _him_.

He is doing that, though, Bohn recognizes vaguely when Duen returns with the food, and to Bohn’s interest, the bedside bassinet without its stilts. He fits it up at the side of the mattress Bohn has been favoring, and after a moment or two of trepidation Bohn manages to set Bee into it without having an entire existential crisis. Duen makes him eat slowly, especially after Bohn wolfs down his first few bites anyways. He has an almost wary hand in the bassinet, is drawing lazy shapes over Bee’s chest while she stares up at him with his eyes, and Bohn lets him for as long as it takes for him to finish his meal before he’s diving back into the depths of the nest and bundling her up to his chest again. 

Guiltily, Bohn hopes Duen doesn’t think that he’s like this as some sort of slight against him. It has nothing to do with him at all, and the fact that Bohn hasn’t chased him out of the room is a testament to how much he actually loves and trusts him. And he does, he does trust him. Especially with Bee. But right now he can’t help but be fixated on her, protective, consumed with a pressing, constant need to have her as close as possible, his and his alone for a little while.

It helps, he thinks, that he doesn’t push Duen away from touching him. Instead he leans into it most of the time, purrs at the careful attention even if he doesn’t verbally respond. Duen can touch Bee, too. And he does. He just can’t take her. 

Bohn lays on his stomach while he feeds her, her tiny head cradled in the palm of his hand and his shoulders hunched as he frames his arms around her body to shield her from the rest of the world. He’s a little disquieted when she doesn’t finish that first bottle, but Duen is quick to murmur a gentle reminder that she probably won’t for a day or so yet. It pays off to have an aspiring doctor for a boyfriend, actually. 

The first handful of days blur together just like that. Bohn drifts between dozing and waking, ever attentive to all the little shifts and sounds in the nursery. He doesn’t talk much, if at all, his focus drawn to Bee and pretty much only her. Duen, however, doesn’t match his silence. He’s keen to remind Bohn of things his muddled brain has brushed aside, eager to pepper quiet praises and affections over his skin whenever Bohn is still awake after Bee has drifted off. He asks questions where they’re needed, even if Bohn’s answers are mostly hoarse whispers or, often, entirely non-verbal, and for the most part Bohn is content with the lull of everything.

Or at least he is until he wakes up on the fourth (or is it the fifth?) day to see Duen sitting next to him and staring at the wall with his arms curled tightly around his knees. His eyebrows are furrowed and a tight frown has marred his normally cheery features. Bohn is on edge before he’s even fully conscious, and he tugs Bee a little closer to his body in her sleep as he blinks himself awake. “Duen,” he whispers, unnerved.

Duen starts, twisting around to brace a hand on the mattress and stare down at him for a moment until he plasters on a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Hey. There you are.”

Carefully, Bohn slips his hands under Bee to lift her up in his arms and settle her into the crook of his elbow, her little chubby face squashed against his chest. Duen watches him do it, but turns his gaze away before he finishes, and Bohn’s heart sinks. 

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, fresh anxiety twisting in his gut as Duen continues to avert his eyes. “I haven’t . . . You haven’t even held her, I should have-”

Duen turns to stare at him, frowning again, “What are you- that’s not-” He cuts himself off with a sigh and shifts around until they’re facing each other properly, and when he holds out a hand Bohn fumbles to take it, shaking as Duen resolutely clasps their fingers together. “Don’t apologize,” Duen says. “I already knew it would be like that. It’s normal for you to be possessive over the baby for a couple of days, and with your history I figured that might extend for a week or so.”

Oh. 

That makes sense, Bohn acknowledges, but he’s loathe to dwell on it too much right now. As much as it stings to think about how being separated from Ben so soon after his birth has had such far reaching effects, his main concern right now is Duen. 

Duen who is looking at him like he’s been caught doing something wrong. Duen, who is wringing his hands and lacing the air with the low and poorly repressed scent of fear. Duen who, Bohn is pretty sure when he leans forward to bring them closer together, has been _crying_. 

“Why are you scared?” he asks before he can lose the nerve to. It can’t be bad, Bohn’s sure. Not when he himself is still so happy. Duen would never do anything to hurt him, them. Not ever.

Duen stares at him for a long, quiet moment, veiled in the cool midnight shadows bathing the room, and when he finally speaks his voice is so thin, so shaky and worn, that it breaks Bohn’s fucking heart. “I’m really bad at this,” Duen chokes out, nearly a sob. “I wasn’t even a good alpha to you while you were pregnant, so how can I . . . The only reason I’m even able to be here right now and help you is because I get the two months of required paternity leave.”

It’s too much, apparently, even to just admit that, and Duen breaks down with a jagged, hitching noise. “I could have held her any time while you were asleep,” he cries. “But I didn’t want to, because I’m _terrible_ at this. I shouldn't have to make time for my family, it should be the other way around. She’s only been here for five days and I’m already screwing everything up. I’m a horrible father, and I-”

Bohn shifts Bee into a more proper grip, apologizes in advance to her already scrunching up face, and deftly deposits her right into Duen’s arms. 

Duen gasps, staggered for a heartbeat as he tries to adjust to the suddenness of it. He shuts up though, which was half of what Bohn wanted from him, so he counts it as a success. Once Duen recovers he whips his head back up to hiss out a fierce, “What if I’d dropped her!?”

“You wouldn’t,” Bohn says evenly, receiving an incredulous glare in return. “Look,” he says slowly. His voice is still a little gravelly from disuse, but he figures he’s probably going to get the point across anyways. “I get where you’re coming from, I really do. I am, in fact, the current reigning king of parental fuckups.” It’s fairly amusing to him that Duen still manages to look stricken at that, but Bohn continues before he can be scolded for saying it. “So I’m going to tell you right now, it’s fine if you make mistakes.”

“Wh-what?”

“Do I look upset?” Bohn asks steadily, gesturing to himself. “Have I acted like you’ve done me some sort of disservice by not being here twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week?” He’s pretty sure he hasn’t, at least not in a way they haven't discussed prior, but if he has he wants to know about it immediately and get King to invent him a time machine so he can go back to the past and deck himself. But Duen just shakes his head. “Cool. So then you haven’t screwed up yet, have you?”

“I could have done better,” Duen whispers, a little rueful. His eyes keep darting down to where Bee is cradled in his arms though, getting more distracted by the second, and Bohn has to bite his lip to keep from grinning. “And I still have three years of school and residency to finish. That’s plenty of time for me to . . . to . . .” He swallows hard, the harsh bob of his adam’s apple only highlighting the visible tears that have started to well in his eyes. “What if she hates me?”

It’s such a viscerally real fear, one Bohn understands all too well, and he can’t help the low note of sympathy that rises in him as he recognizes such familiar grief in Duen’s eyes. “Baby,” he whispers, scooting close enough that their knees brush, that he can wrap his arms around Duen’s trembling shoulders and bury his face into the crook of his neck. “That won’t happen. And even if it does, we’ll get through it. All we can do is our best, and we have a pretty good track record of that turning out alright for us, don’t we.”

He knows Duen will never give him, them, anything other than his best. He’s so good already, practically perfect, and he’s still intent on striving to be better. His precious, worried boy, blind to his own strengths, fixated on all his minor faults. “I love you,” Bohn insists, fiercer than he’s ever said it, the three words growled into the quiet air. “Ben loves you. **_Bee_ ** _loves you_.” Duen’s breath catches, audible, broken. “You don’t have to be perfect at this right away. I certainly wasn’t.” And he definitely isn’t now, but Bohn ignores his own trepidation in favor of all the strides he’s already made. Where Duen sees himself being outpaced, Bohn is sure they’ve only just now found equal ground. “Every second we’re together is already so much more than I ever thought I would have,” he confesses. “So don’t act like you’ve done nothing, earned nothing. Look,” he pulls away just enough to give Duen the space to look down again. 

Bee is blinking up at them with sleep-addled eyes. Duen’s eyes, Bohn notes with infinite, unshakable affection. “That’s your baby,” Bohn reminds softly, reaching up to caress a hand through Duen’s hair at the nape of his neck. “And you seem to have forgotten, but you’re already a fantastic father and have been for _years_.”

He hates the way Duen’s breath hitches, aches for how the tears finally spill over onto his cheeks, dripping down his chin as he inhales around a sob. His boyfriend has a hand around Bee’s pudgy face, his thumb brushing over her dark, baby curls that mirror his own. He sucks in a staggering breath, bowing down over her until he’s nuzzling along the crown of her head. “I already love her _so much_ ,” he chokes out. “That’s why I’m so- Is that even normal? She’s been here _five days_ , Bohn. How can I already love her this much? I’m going to fuck everything up, and I-”

Okay, now he’s just derailing towards a full on anxiety attack. Bohn laughs. He can’t help it. Duen is looking at him with such palpable, bewildered confusion, his attention torn between him and the wiggling baby in his arms, and Bohn loves him so much it hurts. “Duen,” he reassures between barely contained snickers, “you already solved your problem. You just solved it.”

“Huh?”

“You love her already. When have you never not done your best for the people you love.”

Duen’s jaw drops, almost as if he’s offended before he snaps it shut again and just stares at him. “Oh.”

“Yeah, _oh_ ,” Bohn teases. 

“You really have a gift for making me feel like a whole idiot sometimes,” Duen huffs. He still looks the tiniest bit uncertain, and when he shifts Bee in his grip he startles as she starts to cry. “Oh god, I’ve already-” he gasps, stricken again in an instant. “What do I do?”

“Does she smell?”

“No?”

“Then she’s probably hungry,” Bohn shrugs. “Here, I can hold her if you want to go make a bottle.”

He’s not really surprised when Duen just clutches her tighter to him, suddenly heedless of the crying even though his eyes are still anxiously wide. “N-no. I’ll do it. I want to. That’s okay, right?”

It’s more than okay. “Of course,” Bohn assures, so happy that he’s pretty sure his heart skips a little. 

A half hour later, while they’re both sitting on the kitchen countertop, Bohn draped lazily against Duen’s side while Bee lies cradled in the crook of his boyfriend’s arm, greedily sucking down the last few drops of milk in the bottle, Duen looks up to whisper a hoarse and guilty, “I forgot to tell you I love you, earlier.”

Bohn chuckles against him and rubs his cheek across his neck with a hum. “It’s fine. I can accept being the second most important thing in your life.” He tips his chin over Duen’s shoulder to peer down at the baby, fondly aware of how Duen is still staring at her with wide, mesmerized eyes. 

“She’s pretty amazing,” Duen says, his tone wash with adoration. 

“She’s just drinking formula,” Bohn deadpans, laughing again as Duen casts him an offended look and elbows him in the side. 

~~~***~~~

It’s not an exaggeration for Bohn to say that he has everything he ever wanted. 

Sure, he’d fumbled a few times, made it here in trips and false starts, he has the scars to prove that, bears them both inside and out. But he’s never felt more like he’s reached his destination.

If he ever gets bold enough to write down all the little intricacies of what has made him, this is where he wants the pages to start. Everything else before this was just a prologue; the first true chapters he can be proud of are penned upon the fresh, beginning days of a new life.

Once, less than a year ago, he’d been chasing after lost chances, desperate fantasies, grieving over what could not be reclaimed. Those old wounds haven’t left, likely never will, but they’re eased with each passing day. It’s hard to cling to what he lacks when ultimately his life has grown so full. 

Outside the nursery window he can see Ben and Daonua swinging on the playset in the yard. They’re laughing about something, their giggles carrying high elation into the air until Bohn can’t help but give in to a smile of his own, shaking his head as he turns his attention to the rest of the room. The nest has been dismantled, set aside for a potential, further future, and when he straightens up from where he’s been leaning on the window seat and turns he sees Duen peeking in at him from the hall. 

His boyfriend has Bee snuggled up against his chest, and he’s bouncing back and forth on his toes as Bohn approaches. “Are you sure you don’t want her in her own room yet? We did just spend half the day assembling that crib in the one closest to ours, and we do have a baby monitor,” Duen asks, his rhythm unfaltering even when he rocks back on his heels to make space for Bohn beside him in the hall.

At just under two months she’s still small enough to fit in the little bedside bassinet, and Bohn’s been adamant about keeping her close in it for as long as they can. “Nah,” he says, waving a dismissive hand even as Duen rolls his eyes. “Maybe in a few weeks.” Or a few months. “Hey,” he changes the topic with artful ease, “I see you’ve perfected the baby bounce.”

Duen levels him with an dubious look. “ _That’s_ what this is called? The thing you do whenever she’s crying while you're trying to make a bottle is known as the 'baby bounce?'”

Honestly, Bohn’s not aware of when he is or isn’t doing it, but he is highly amused by the fact that Duen is and has clearly been trying to imitate him. “That’s what I call it,” he supplies vaguely, leaning into Duen’s side to peer down at her. 

Bee is mostly asleep, though she blinks blearily up at him when he gets into her line of sight. Bohn grins and ducks down to place a kiss to her forehead. “You ready to go back to the real world?” he asks quietly, glancing up at Duen out of the corners of his eyes. 

They’d talked about it for a long time after that night where Duen had broken down. Bohn didn’t want him to push himself if it only lead to regret, and Duen had agreed with unexpected ease, all but weeping in relief after he’d finally made the right phonecalls to get everything set in place. His class load is smaller, his residency hours shorter, and the price is an extra two years of study. It’s worth it though, Duen has assured him. He’ll be home when he needs to be, have time to do the things he wants, and Bohn couldn’t be happier if only because of how pleased Duen has been at the prospect of the simple gift of more time. 

“No,” Duen confesses. “But I’ll manage.” In a week he’ll start attending school Monday through Wednesday until two, and working at the clinic to come home by six. He’ll have another half day of clinic rotation on Thursdays, but it’s left him with three entire free days, and every evening of the week. It’ll put their life on hold again, perhaps for a bit longer than Bohn would have liked, but he’s already derailed their plans enough on his own. For Duen, he’s happy to compromise with this. The road ahead won’t be without its own unexpected twists, but he has never lied to Duen. They’ll stumble their way through it until they figure it out, and thus far every place they’ve ended up has left his heart a little lighter and his life forever filled. It’s hard to be scared of a path he knows he won’t have to travel alone.

“Yeah. We both will,” Bohn whispers, tipping his head to kiss him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally had to take a break from this for an hour today just to instead outline a THIRD FIC IN THIS SERIES so fuck me, god damn, this is going to be at least a trilogy.
> 
> Comments as always are super loved and appreciated, even if I don't reply to every one of them I promise you I read and adore them all. Thank you everyone for sitting through this thing that just absolutely took over my life, I hope you've enjoyed reading it just as much as I have writing it.


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